A Broken Violin
by Hiron Otsuki
Summary: Reanna: a girl with BWS. Chris: a guy with no purpose in life. When abusive circumstances force Reanna from her own home and into Chris's, Child Protection Services steps into a situation fraught with magic and danger. Can still more magic save them all?
1. She Moved Through the Faire

Series: Bedlam's Bard… sort of.

Title: A Broken Violin.

Author: Hiro no Tsuki.

Rating: PG-13, for language, slight nudity, and violence.

Disclaimer: I don't own Bards. They owned themselves. I'm not really using anything of Mrs. Lackeys, so should this even be here? . . .

Author's note: This is really an original thing that I was doing, but I decided to stick it here and get some feedback, since it bears some resemblance to Mercedes Lackey's Bedlams Bard series later on. It's my first full-length novel that has some chance of getting finished, so please, please review!

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Chapter One: _She Moved Through the Faire_.

Kryss was wrapped up in his music again. It held him gently like a mother, and his eyes were closed, fingers moving swiftly to cover and expose each hole in the brilliant silver instrument. He slowly opened his eyes as the last few bars of Banish Misfortune eased themselves out of the flute. There were about half a dozen people sitting on the haybales in front of him, clapping along with the music. Ten bales of hay sat before him, eight of them in two rows of four, and two bales at the ends of the two bracketing columns. All but one of his audience were 'travelers,' dressed in modern clothing. The person dressed in renaissance clothing wore a long knife, and a dagger belted over a long-sleeved midnight blue classic swordsman's shirt and black canvas pants, with black leather boots and a black leather headband. It would never pass the Authenticity Nazis, but he thought it still looked cool. The wearer was an average type-male- or was it female? The person in question had long, dark brown hair, but plenty of the guys at the Faire wore their hair long. Kryss himself wore his hair just past his shoulders. There was a curious and prominent silver streak on the right side of their head, and unfocused green eyes half-peering at him out of half closed lids.

He considered the facial structure and hands folded in the person's lap, and decided that the individual was female. Odd, though. A girl wearing a guy's outfit? Sure, there were plenty of women wearing breeches, but this particular one had no breasts, and she was most definitely _not_ under thirteen. Wait- she shifted in her seat slightly, and he caught a glimpse of what looked like several layers of Ace bandages wrapping her shoulders and chest. Yep, definitely a _she_.

As the final note trilled out, she opened her eyes completely, and started clapping honestly with the others.

Pleased, he called out, "Any requests?" Not really expecting any, he was surprised when her eyes widened and she said, barely audibly, "O'Carolan's Farewell to Music?"

He raised his eyebrows that she knew it; most people couldn't name anything other than a song from the current music culture. She blushed and looked down at the ground when he nodded, and he raised the gleaming wind instrument back up to his lips, as three of his listeners hauled themselves off his haybales, presumably to find more beer and or food, and the rest sat and listened, uninterested, as he launched into the song that Turlough O'Carolan, an Irish harpist-composer dead nearly three hundred years, had written when he finally came home to die.

The girl, however, sat on the haybale and listened to the tune avidly, as if she could see something that the others could not; what he _played_, and as if what she saw was complete and absolute paradise, and yet at the same time, heartrendingly sad, because her eyes filled up with tears over the course of the song, and one eventually escaped to slip down her cheek. He was surprised that the song moved her so much and bored everyone else- well, maybe the bored part wasn't entirely surprising. Most travelers at the Faire like quick, loud jigs, and O'Carolan's Farewell to music was hardly a jig, unless you played it fast all the way through.

Still, the way she sank into the music- she wasn't even playing, and she still managed to tune everything out and focus so completely on the music, and see what he played-literally. That was something you didn't see every day, even in musical prodigies. He wondered if she herself was a musician. Glancing at his watch, he realized that it was noon; time for Saera Traynor to show up with her voice and her brother, Brad, who played the lute.

"Alrigh'y then," he called. "My time's up-" the girl got up to leave, dropping a fiver into his hat, and brushing the tear from her face with long, slender fingers- "but Lady Traynor and her brother will be here inna coupla moments to play some more ol' tunes, so stay to see them!"

He swiftly disassembled his flute, carefully placing it in its slots in his gig bag. The girl left the clearing just as Saera strode into it, brother in tow.

"Thenkee, sir," she curtsied, and he winked at her, mouthing, "good luck."

She smiled back, and he grabbed his hat, slung the case over his back, and meandered down the path that the lass had taken. He stopped by a few vendors to chat, and went to go get some lunch, the girl still lingering in the back of his mind. There was something about her that tugged on his memory, but he couldn't _quite_ remember. After a few minutes of browsing, he finally found something that he liked- tacos. They weren't necessarily Elizabethian, but they were palatable. He bought two, and looked around for somewhere to eat his prize.

All of the tables were full. He scanned the crowd for anyone he knew. Maybe someone would scoot over and let them eat with them? Most of the tables had travelers in them, and the few that had Rennies were completely full. There _was_ one empty table, but it was covered with bird- wait. There was a small table with only one occupant. He squinted to identify the person. It was the girl from his audience. She was eating alone. She probably wouldn't mind if he sat with her. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy raven hair, trying to smooth it, and wandered over.

"Mind if I sit here?" he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"No, go right ahead," she answered quietly.

"Thanks." He sat down and started in on a taco. She was fairly young, he realized, now that he was closer to her. She couldn't be older than eighteen.

"You play very well," she ventured shyly.

"Thanks. The name's Blade. Kryss Blade." He grinned at her.

She smiled back tentatively. "I'm Silver MacLeshan."

"Nice to meet you. I noticed how much the music caught you. Do you play?"

"Violin."

"Really? How long have you played?"

"Only for seven years. My teacher taught me for five, then left off, and said that I could finish on my own. He said that only experience could finish teaching what I needed to learn." She shrugged.

"That's interesting. Are you good?"

"I guess so. I mean, that's what my aunt and uncle said, but they died in a car accident a few months ago. My dad was proud of me, too, and my mom- well, she died when I was thirteen, so she never heard me get anywhere."

"… I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't be. I didn't see my aunt and uncle much, so I didn't really know them, and my mom was a while back. Let's turn onto a happier topic. You travel with the Faire, right?"

"I travel with the Faire."

"Really?" she sounded curious. "What's it like?"

He grinned again. "Dirty. Hard. Fun as hell. Are you local?"

"Yes."

"Ah- how old are you, if you don't mind my asking?" He asked, starting on his second taco. She started pushing her food around her plate.

"I'm seventeen. How old are _you_?"

"Twenty, and I'm the youngest person here on their own." He grinned again, hiding a slight guilt. In truth, he was twenty-four, but he figured she could trust someone closer to her own age, and something inside him was prodding him to try to become her friend.

"Ah." They finished up their meal in silence, he finishing his taco, and her taking one last reluctant bite of corn.

She stood up, walked over to a refuse bin, and dropped her plate in.

"Hey, wait up!" he hurried after her, dropping the remains of his own food in another bin. "Where are you headed to?"

"I was going walk around some more."

"Mind if I join you? I don't have another show for-" he checked his watch, 12:30- "a half hour."

"Sure, why not?" They walked together for a while until they reached the archery field.

"Want to try?" He asked her.

"Okay," she said. They each paid the three dollars for a bow and a quiver of ten arrows.

He missed one shot, but four hit the bullseye and the rest hit the target at various points. Handing in his bow and arrows, he watched Silver. Her first four fouled, ploughing into the dirt or flying over the haybale targets completely, catching in the net behind them. Her next three hit the bales of hay that the targets were on, until he stopped her. "Want some pointers?"

"Couldn't hurt," she said, eyeing the targets with misgiving.

He positioned himself behind her and drew an arrow from her quiver, trying to ignore the fact that there was an attractive young woman practically in his arms.

"May I?"

She snorted. "Anything to help."

He snapped the arrow onto the bow and positioned her hands on it. "Okay, now you line it up with your eyelevel, parallel with your cheek, put- are you left-handed or right-handed? Right? Good. Put your left foot forward, and draw the arrow back with your right hand, as far as you think you can pull without making it unwieldy, but don't lock your arm- when the arrow goes, the string'll snap against your arm and raise a big ol' welt. Ready? Let'r fly."

She released the arrow, and it flew straight and true, hitting the third ring- of the next stall's haybale target.

"Good!"

"But I didn't hit my target."

"You still hit _a_ target. You still have two more arrows; try try again. "

"O-okay," she faltered.

He removed his hands and stood back as she pulled her ninth arrow from the quiver.

She positioned herself as he had showed her, and loosed the arrow. The missile whizzed across the field, to embed itself in the hay target, in the second ring away from the center.

He clapped. "Very good! One left. Try to hit the center this time."

She blushed, nodded, and nocked her last arrow. It flew straight and true, burying itself between the center and the second ring of her haybale. Her face transformed with delight, into a smile. She was pretty when she smiled, he realized. Not that she wasn't before, but it really showed with her smile.

"Thanks," she said. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"My pleasure," he answered. She turned her bow in, and they walked down the road, pausing once to play with Pippin, a man who attached himself with strings to a big puppet-framework and let people play with him for tips.

Silver laughed as Kryss maneuvered Pippin off the table, and burst into laughter when the poor puppet 'tripped,' and fell into the dust. She was still snickering as she and Kryss hauled him back onto the table, and they each dropped a single into his box, after which they walked down the path to Kryss's next performance stage, Celtic Stage. Her face lit up slightly as the knife, axe, and star-boards came into view.

"See something you like?" he teased. "Can we?"

"Alright," he wasn't too good at the knife board, but the axes usually stayed where he threw them. "How about you do the knives and I do the axes?"

"Okay."

They each paid the two dollars for their respective weapons, she receiving six knives and he five axes. He went first, the axes thudding into the wood, but to his chagrin, only one stayed; they rest fell out, bouncing off the hay and hitting the ground with metallic thunks. The one that did stay, however, gave the boy running the booth a hard time coming out; he had to put his foot on the board and wrench the thing out. He crossed over to the knife booth, watching from behind the bar as Silver balanced the knives where they widened between the tang and the point. She threw them one by one, in rapid fire and he blinked as all six _thocked_ into or directly around the small red heart in the center of the shield on the board of wood that was her target. He whistled. "Damn, but you're deadly with those."

She flushed. "I know. It's one of the only things I'm good at."

They moved on, and a few minutes later his watch beeped. 12:55. "I have to get over to Celtic Stage now. I'm performing with Brad McCork on lute, and Saera Traynor on vocals. Do you want to come watch us and stick around after the show?"

"Okay," she said. He moved swiftly through the crowds, her following in his wake, to the Celtic Stage where Brad and Saera were already waiting. Silver sat on a haybale and watched Kryss set up his flute while he conferred with the other two on the song lineup. Brad retuned his lute while the talked, and they finally decided to start with Rutland Reel and move into Banish Misfortune, Beggar Lad, and from there onto Si Beg and Si Mor. As one-o-clock rolled around, they finished setting up.

"Ladies and Ladies- just kidding, Lords and Ladies, welcome to the Celtic Stage, I am Saera Traynor," "I be Brad McCork," Brad bowed, "And I'm Kryss Blade." Kryss nodded. "And together we are Danse Macabre," Saera continued. "Normally, we would play our signature song, however our fiddler has left us-" the audience booed- "and accepted a contract with BachMusic Ltd, and is gone." The audience 'awwwed'

"However, we can play other tunes for ye today! Rutland Reel!"

Rutland Reel was a fast jig, set to get the audience's toes tapping. As the song wound down, Kryss pulled the flute from his lips and called, "Banish Misfortune!"

They slipped into the song, and from there, fell into a modified version of 'Beggar Lad,' so that Saera could sing instead of just dance. As they finished up the vocal song, Kryss played the opening to Si Beg and Si Mor, the others caught it up, and he sank into a sea of music again.

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Please review, there's a lot more where this came from! I have yet to actually finish the damned novel, but I'm gonna try. This was the first eight written pages, and there's a hundred and thirty more written, and it's not even done yet. Please review, and I might get motivated again! 


	2. The Maid Behind the Bar

**Chapter Two: The Maid Behind the Bar**

After the show, while Silver waited patiently on a haybale, Saera moved over to Brad and said, "There's something I need to ask you."

"No, I won't marry you."

She gave him a withering look. "Who's the girl Kryss came with?"

"I don't know. He was with her earlier, though," he replied.

"Well, there's something wrong with her."

"What do you mean?" He exclaimed, immediately going on the defensive.

"No, not like malicious wrong—just like—_victim_ wrong. I watched her during the show, and the way she was wrapped up in the music—it's not natural, it's self induced. She enjoys the music, hell, even loves it, but…" She left the sentence hanging in the air.

"I see. You mean it's like she uses the magic as a shell, as a way to armor herself," he paused. "Against what, though? Bullied at school? She looks like she could handle that."

"I know. I don't think it's school."

Brad shrugged. "I don't know either. Let's not tell Kryss, though. He's got enough on his plate right now, with his parents getting divorced and all. We can just keep an eye on her…"

Silver gradually became more friendly and talkative over the course of the day, and she and Chris really enjoyed themselves. At the end of the day, they made plans to meet the next day. The Festival was in town for ten weeks, and this was only week one.

They met up the next day, and Brad and Saera joined them this time. Silver discovered that Brad was gay and Saera was his very close friend, almost spirit siblings. _They_ were both here because Brad's homophobic father had disowned Brad when he came out of the closet, and since Brad was almost Saera's brother, and vice-versa, and she hadn't wanted him to leave on his own, they had joined the Faire a few weeks later, when Brad was eighteen and Saera nineteen. By now, they'd been with the Faire for a few years, living in their own trailer hook to the bed of Saera's old pickup. Saera's cousin, Thomas, who joined a few years later for no reason other than, 'I like to travel and I'm good at metal-working.' Thomas had turned out to be a natural at making chainmail _and_ platemail, and now worked in one of the forges, making armor for both Rennies and travelers alike.

He slept with three other guys in a small camper.

Back in the present, though, Silver apparently had no problem with Brad's sexuality. They all finished up the day, with Silver taking the bus home again, and Kryss and the others going back to their respective camps. They continued in the pattern for two weeks, including the four school days, when Silver came with a school that Kryss was never able to find, until-

"Where is she?" Kryss asked suddenly, looking about anxiously.

"What?" Brad asked, distractedly- he was restringing his lute.

"She's not here."

"Oh."

"Something's wrong, I know it."

"You're overreacting."

"I can _feel_ it," he insisted.

"Now I _know_ you're overreacting."

"No, I'm _not_. She would have said something, or called."

"You gave her your _phonenumber_?"

Chris stretched the word out. "Yeeeees."

Brad shook his head and went back to replacing the strings on his livelihood.

§

She limped through the crowds nervously. Had Kryss missed her? Forgotten her? Would he be angry? She hoped not. He was a friend. One of the few that she had.

"Hey!" someone put a hand on her shoulder and she winced at the sudden pain.

"Hey," she answered back, trying to mask the pain in her voice. To her surprise, it only trembled a little. She was getting better at this.

"What's wrong? Why are you limping?" He was observant, she had to give him credit for that.

"I- uh." She couldn't think of anything to say. '_Now comes the trouble._'

"Did someone hit you?" Kryss asked. He pulled the fabric of her shirt away from her neck to reveal the bandage that bound her breasts in place. His eyes widened.

"What- who-"

"I-I-" there was a huge bruise on her shoulder, barely covered by the bandages, that spread from her shoulder to the base of her neck and disappeared down the front and back of her shirt. It was black at the center, but fading to green and purple at the edges, and felt like pounded meat.

"I fell down- down the stairs, and I hit my shoulder," she offered lamely.

His eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you."

"But… I… I'm sorry that I can't explain it. You'd hate me a-and- I have to go. I'm sorry."

She wheeled and dashed off through the crowd, out the entrance of the Faire, and along the road that led to the main road and the bus stop.

He stood stunned for a moment at what she'd said, then came back to his senses and ran after her. He caught sight of her running through the cars, and ducking into the bus stop. He slowed down for a moment, hands on knees, panting; he was _not_ used to sprinting.

He started running again--and the bus pulled up. "No!" he shouted. He was sorry for doing whatever it had been that had scared her and made her run. She jumped on the bus, and it pulled off.

"Silver…"

'_You'd hate me…_'

§

Brad was in a group of other Faire-dwellers partying on the edge of the tent-and-camper encampment to give the sleepers some quiet. There was a small fire going, and turkey legs were being passed around. Saera was back in their camper, complaining of a headache, and Kryss was apparently sleeping, while Thomas was out visiting a lady-friend. The party was situated near the small road that led from the Fairesite to the campsite.

Brad had just gotten his turkey leg when a branch snapped behind him. Nobody else appeared to have noticed it.

"Who's there?" he called back quietly.

"Me," aclipped, familiarvoice answered.

"_Silver_?"

"Do you know where Krysh is?"

"Why?"

"I need to apologize for shomething."

"Come into the light."

"… I can't," she called from the darkness. "Can you just take me to him?"

He looked around. The other revelers hadn't noticed their exchange. "Okay."

He handed someone--Pippin, he thought--his turkey leg and stood up, and walked over to where he had heard Silver's voice originate from.

"Over here." He looked over to the road, at a moonlight-outlined figure. Blinking from the sudden adjustment from fire to darkness, he could make out Silver looking at him, and it looked like she was cradling her arm.

"Let's go," he said quietly, sensing that something was very wrong here. Maybe Saera _had_ been right. For Silver's sake, he hoped she wasn't. They set off through the camps, to a clearing apart from the other tents and camps. In the middle sat a gleaming dark grey RV, with an over-the-bed bunk.

Brad led her to the door, and rapped sharply three times on it. The windows remained dark. He knocked again. After a few seconds there was a shuffling on the other side, the sounds of the door being unlocked, and a mostly-conscious Kryss stood in the doorway, clothed in black cotton pants and hair tousled, barechested.

"Brad, what in hell- _Silver_?" he asked disbelievingly. "What are you- never mind. Come on in." He held the door open, and closed it behind them. Brad heard a rustle of fabric that probably meant that Kryss had grabbed the shirt that he usually had hanging off a chair somewhere in the kitchen.

He groped behind him for the light switch, found it, and flipped it. He gasped and Kryss's jaw hit the floor. Silver _was_ cradling her arm. More importantly than that, she was liberally covered in scrapes, bruises, and cuts. She had a spectacular black eye, and a misshapen bruise on her jaw. Her throat had finger marks on it, and the despair in her clouded eyes matched that in Brad's soul. '_How did we not see this? It should have been _obvious'

Her biggest problem appeared to be the long, nasty gash that ran down the length of her right forearm. Her formerly apparently white shirt and blue jeans were covered in blood and what smelled like beer.

Kryss was, for once, speechless. Brad, however, voiced what both of them were thinking. "Holy shit!"

"What- happened to you?" Kryss finally managed.

"N-nothing. I just came to apologize for- today. I shouldn't have shaid that, I really just got in a fight, and I sorta need to go now, sho—"

"No. Nothing? Silver, this is not _nothing_. This is torture. _Who did this to you?_"

"I- no one. No one did this to me." She looked panicky, and Brad moved into the stairwell and locked the door. This needed to stop here and now.

"Silver, is someone abusing you?" Brad asked.

"Ye- no. Please, shtop."

"Is it your mother?"

"My mother's dead," she answered harshly.

Oops. "What about your father." Bingo. Silver stiffened, and the panic in her eyes turned to terror.

"Please," she pleaded, "Just let me go and forget about this. He's all I have. Everyone else is dead; the only people we have left is each other." She stifled a gasp at what she'd revealed, and Kryss smiled grimly.

"Why?"

"I can't tell you. You'll go to the police, and besides, they'll only put me back and then he'll be worse than before. Please, just let me go home."

"We can't do that," Kryss answered. "Tell us and we can help you."

"He's an alcoholic, okay! He's a recovering alcoholic, and I've been helping him."

"By being his punching bag?" Brad asked sarcastically.

"He'd been drinking before my mom's death, and after, it just got-worse. He's coming back, though! He loves me, and I love him, and he's going to get better!"

Kryss's expression softened. "Silver, if he loved you, would he be doing this to you?" he asked gently.

"It's just stress," she retorted. "We'll get over it together. He just needs time. Everyone does." She laughed hollowly, then winced. "Ow. That really hurts."

"Do you want to go to the hospital?" Brad asked.

She blanched. "_No_! I- I can't! They'll know and send me to a foster home. Please, can I go now?"

"Not until we've patched you up. Brad, the bag's-"

"I know." Brad grabbed the orange EMT bag out of the passenger's seat of the cab and placed it on the table.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Kryss rummaged around in it and pulled out a few things: bandages, gauze pads, cloth tape, antiseptic, band-aids, scissors, and cotton swabs. Brad filled a pan with water from the sink and brought it back to the table.

"You look like you're used to this," she observed, slumping a little in her chair.

"Well, I _am_ one of the extra EMTs on camp. Brad's got some training too, so sometimes we get called to patch up some of the minor injuries that the people with the Malkas Empire get when the first-aid tent is busy."

"Oh." With that, Kryss got to work cleaning out the arm-wound and bandaging it, then cleaned out and smeared all of the larger cuts and scrapes with antiseptic, and covered them with gauze pads. As he was covering some of the puncture wounds with band-aids, he asked her what had done it. "A beer bottle," she quietly replied.

"You're a mess, you know that?" he joked, trying to lift her spirits.

"Yeah," was her only reply as she swayed a little.

"I…" he peered more closely at her. Her eyes were glassy, and as she breathed…

_She's drunk,_ he realized. _Not very, but enough. Why. . . ?_

"Silver, are you—ah—intoxicated?" he asked carefully.

Her eyes widened. "N-no," she stammered.

He smiled gently. "I know you are, Silver. Just tell me why."

"The pain," she whispered. "It was too much and I know alcohol dims it a little."

"Good girl."

"Chris, can I talk to you for a minute?" Brad pulled Chris aside. "Have you thought about what she's gonna do now?" he asked. "She's gonna go back to that house, get beat up again and again, and sooner or later, she'll either die from it, or she'll break. A broken abuse victim is bad, Chris, they're usually better off dead. The only ones worse from abuse are rape victims. Cammie—don't flinch, Chris—she killed herself. _She killed herself _because of one goddamn perv. One. Where's she gonna stay, is she gonna press charges, are _we_? I mean, she _can't_ go back there, and frankly, I won't let her. I don't care what she wants to do, I'll raise the whole camp if I have to, she's _not going back_."

"Brad, I fully agree with you. She's not going back."

"But how are we going to make her stay? That's like kidnapping. We can't hold her against her will."

"No, but I can make her go to sleep."

"How? Got any morphine?"

"No, but I got this." Kryss held up a package of Ibuprofen, and another package of sleeping pills.

"She can stay right here."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Brad asked.

"Yeah, I have more than enough room, and it gets lonely at night."

Brad glared at him.

"Not in that way!" Chris hissed. "God, she's been through enough. She's just going to stay here for as long as she needs to, okay?" Brad's glare softened. "I just hope you know what you're doing."

Chris handed Silver two Ibuprofen and one of the sleeping pills. "These are painkillers," he told her. Take these, wait a half hour, then I'll let you leave."

Obediently, she took them, much to Brad's surprise. Ten minutes later she was yawning and swaying slightly.

"Silver, do you want to stay here?" Chris asked. "I have room, and no, you wouldn't be a problem."

"But I don't want to be a burden, and I need to get-" he cut her off gently.

"Go. You'll never make it home without dropping, and your father will probably be gone tomorrow morning."

Brad watched with a slight smile on his lips as Chris practically manhandled Silver up the ladder leading to the upper bunk, who was protesting drowsily all the way.

"Well, folks, I'm going to go seek my own bed. Silver, sleep well and Chris, watch over her. Later."

He quietly unlocked and backed out the door.

"Kryss?" he heard a sleepy voice inside the RV say.

"Hmm?" came the tenor reply.

"My name- my real name is Reanna."

"And I, Reanna," Chris answered, though she surely couldn't hear him, "am Chris."

Brad smiled.


	3. Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go?

I know I haven't touched this in a while, but I was reading it tonight and I had some spare time on my hands and I'm going to start on chapter three. I know a lot of the stuff in this book _wouldn't_ happen in real life, particularly some of what these people will do, but I'm taking artistic license and a chance and hoping that you all like this.

Reviewer Replies:

Xanny- I've been going to my local Faire for six years. I'm going to another in the Keys this weekend. Why?

Anita H.- Sorry. I've been a bit busy…

Forrest- When I find you, you're dead.

About a boy I'll sing this song sing rickety tickety tin  
About a boy I'll sing this song who did not live for very long  
Because he was stupid and wrong.  
Hiron Otsuki did him in.  
Them in. Hiron Otsuki did him in.

(Parody from here http:www. thebards. net /music /lyrics /IrishBallad.shtml)

Coral- I know you're Forrest. Stop.

Thanks to- wizard116, Akennea, and Mischa Kitsune.

* * *

**Chapter Three: _Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go? _**

"Reanna… _Reanna_…"

A voice called her slowly out of dreamland where she'd been locked in a room full of knives and beer bottles, and where blood was spattered on the brick walls in regular patterns, as if someone had been cut horribly and then tried to drag themself along the wall.

"Unh," she groaned.

"Ah!" A gasp excaped her mouth as the pain from her injuries made themselves known all at once. "Where- Saera?"

"Hey, kid." Saera was balanced on the ladder leading to the bunk. "How ya feeling?"

"Like I just got hit by three cars, an old man on a bike, two motorcycles and a semi truck."

"She's awake?" A man's voice said. Reanna peered over the edge of the bed. Brad and Chris were at the table, drinking coffee. Saera jumped off the ladder and went to the coffee machine on the counter and poured two more cups.

"You okay?" Brad called, peering up at her in concern. Chris just watched her over the rim of his mug, concern obvious in his blue eyes.

"Better than last night, but still pretty out." That was an understatement… she felt horrible, and all of the pain wasn't entirely physical. She'd sworn to herself when this started that she'd help Dad on her own. She couldn't accept help from anyone. They just wouldn't be able to see what she could see in Dad; that he _could _be helped, and that she was going to help him get better. Now if only she could get out and get home.

"We figured as much."

"Ah."

"Need help getting down?"

"No, thanks. I think I can- _oomph_!" She slid down the ladder and hit the floor hard, sending a jolt through her already-bruised body.

"Want some thing to eat?"

"I really don't want to impose," she said. "In fact, I think I need to-"

"Eat," Saera finished firmly. "You need to eat. And you need coffee, too, by the looks of it." She passed one of the fresh cups under Reanna's nose. "Mmm, smells good. You know you want _coffee_," she said teasingly.

"Alright," Reanna said, giving in. "Just the coffee, though." _Then I'm leaving._

Chris pushed a plate of toast towards her and Brad slid a dish of jam over. "Eat," both men chorused.

"Just the coffee," Reanna repeated.

"Eat," Chris said more firmly.

"But-"

"Eat. The. Food. Now," he said, tone sounding like he would force-feed her if she didn't feed herself.

"Fine," she huffed, and started spreading some jam on the toast.

When she'd finished both the coffee and the toast, Saera slid into the booth beside her, effectively cutting off her escape route. _Oh no. _

"Reanna, what happened last night?" Saera said, cutting to the chase.

"Dad just got a little drunk, that's all," Reanna said. She was proud of the fact that her voice only quavered a little.

"A little drunk?" Chris asked in disbelief. "Being a _little_ drunk doesn't make people go crazy and cut up their own kid with a beer bottle."

"Maybe he was more than a bit drunk," Reanna conceded warily, "but that's really just the first time he's gotten like this, I swear."

Chris just reached over the table and poked her bruised shoulder from a few days before and she winced at the pain and the sorrow in his eyes."

"Reanna," he said softly. "You have to let us help you."

"I don't need help!" she said defensively. "_He_ needs help, and he's getting it. Can I go now?"

"No," Saera said. "You can't go back there."

"Only because you won't let me!" Reanna retorted.

"That's right," Chris said, eyes blazing. "We aren't going to let you go home because you will die if you do. It may not be today, or even tomorrow, or even in the next year, but eventually he's going to go over the edge! Or- or you may not be able to hold on for too long. I-" something in his eyes darkened. "I knew someone once- a girl, who was being abused… by her boyfriend." His eyes grew distant, as if he were seeing something far away. "She never told anyone, and she could barely take … she could barely take the pain, and when her family found out, she went over the edge, and she… she killed herself. She just couldn't take it, and she… she went to a bridge one night in the middle of winter… she took all of her clothes off, and slit her wrists with a knife that her younger brother had given her as a gift… and she threw herself off the bridge. The river was icy-cold and so fast… she was swept away so fast, and she was so cold… the body was lost… it wasn't found until the spring, when a fisherman spotted a possum gnawing… gnawing at the bracelet on her wrist…"

His eyes were icy, and devoid of emotion, and Reanna knew… she just _knew_ that Chris had been the brother… and it had been his sister who had killed herself. And to be the one who had supplied the means of suicide… She suddenly felt a wave of pity for this young man who had lost his sister at such a young age and to such a situation. Following hard on its heels came another wave of guilt for making him tell the story at all.

Slowly, she reached a hand across the table and placed it over his own. "I'm sorry," she said, looking him straight in the eyes and trying to communicate her compassion.

"Forget it," he said gruffly, looking out the window.

She withdrew her hand quickly and placed it in her lap.

"Normally he hits me where it doesn't show," she said quietly, and the other three looked at her in surprise. "So no one ever notices. I have to angle my body, sometimes, to make sure he doesn't miss… but it's never been this bad before. When Mom died… he just got worse."

"Worse?"

"Well, he was drinking before that, and he'd slapped me around a few times," she said in a subdued voice. "But when she died… I guess he blamed me. She was always going to the concerts, and she never really had a very strong immune system. She lived a fast life, and then, a few years ago… she was infected with HIV." Saera gasped and Brad looked stunned. Only Chris looked unmoved. "She was in a car accident, and she needed a blood transfusion. I guess she got one of the few batches that slip by the tests, because she came down with HIV pretty fast, and then it developed into full-blown AIDS… because of me." She held up one hand to silence the protest she could see in Chris's eyes. "She always insisted on going out, and especially to my concerts. There were just too many.. The drugs were never really a help, and she knew that she could have lived longer if she'd been more careful. But you can never be sure who shows up at a concert. When she was in the hospital for the last time, Dad said that he saw at least five people with symptoms of the flu. It was almost impossible for her to not get sick."

Reanna closed her eyes against the light and saw her mother in the hospital, on that deathbed, wasted away and so frail… her beautiful dark cherry hair gone forever, but so strong… Then she opened her eyes to the concerned faces of her friends. "She said… on that last day that she never regretted any of it. She said that she only wished that she could have lived longer, and come see me when I was a world-famous violinist. She told Dad that she wished they could have grown old together, like couples should…" She blinked, and saw a flash of her father, sobbing at the side of the bed and holding his wife's hand.

"That was three years ago," she finished quietly. "Dad still hasn't gotten over her. I don't think he ever will, but we're trying. One day at a time."

Saera slipped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her gently, being careful of the bruises. "I'm sorry, hon. We really don't want to take you away from him, it's just… it's not healthy for him to take his anger out on you. If he never accepts that she's gone, and then inadvertently kills you one day… where will he be? You'll be dead, and he'll go to jail for murder."

That stopped Reanna cold. She'd never really taken into consideration the thought that Steven Wyr would go so far as that. What if he did? Then what?

After what seemed like hours of internally arguing with herself, she finally came to a decision.

"Fine," she said carefully. "I won't go back until I'm sure that he's gone, but I'm going back to clean up the house and try to make him something to eat for when he _does_ get back."

"What does he do?" Brad asked.

"He's the foreman in a construction company that installs pools in people's backyards."

"Oh. So when does he usually go to work?"

Reanna looked at the clock on the wall. It _tick_ed, and she blinked. Wow. It was already 10 in the morning. She was missing school, but it didn't matter. She could always make it up. She usually did after she came back from being 'sick.' _Yeah, if bruises were the symptoms. I'm chronically sick from 'bruisenza_.'

She pulled absently at the bandage covering the gash on her arm and winced as the bloody flesh stuck to the bandage. _Bloody… flesh…_ She looked down at herself and groaned; she was still wearing the same shirt and jeans from the night before. Both were covered in blood and beer.

"Ugh. I knew I felt sticky when I woke up," she groaned, and then blushed when she realized how that sounded.

"Yeah… we weren't gonna mention it, but we did bring you something. And look! Not Faire clothes!" Saera said sarcastically, reminding Reanna of the one time that they'd met in the supermarket during the week and Reanna had exclaimed at seeing Saera in normal clothes. The woman reached around a corner and handed Reanna a plastic bag holding what looked like a pair of clean blue jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt. As Reanna took it from her, she felt what were apparently socks on the bottom.

Touched by Saera's thoughtfulness, she felt her throat close up. "Thanks," she whispered, hugging the older woman.

"Oh, hush," Saera answered, though her own voice sounded just _slightly_ hoarse as she embraced Reanna.

"We're going to go now," Brad said after an emotional pause. "We'll be back in a few hours. That should give you enough time to clean up and get ready."

"Ready for what?" Reanna said nervously.

"Oh, you'll see," Brad said enigmatically. _Great. Thanks, Mr. Mystery._

Saera hugged her again and then she and Brad left, leaving her alone in the trailer with Chris.

"So, uh." He coughed. "The shower's right behind that door around the corner behind you, and there are spare towels in that cabinet. Bang on the door if you need anything." He disappeared through the door past the kitchen that led (presumably) to the master bedroom, and she was the only one left in the main room of the cabin. After a pause, she grabbed the bag, opened the cabinet that Chris had indicated and pulled out a fluffy green towel, and entered the small bathroom, and pulled the curtain to halve the room. Then she stripped, being careful not to pull the bandages. She managed to get most of them off until she reached the one on her arm; it was stuck to her skin, and she gritted her teeth. With a few swift tugs, she pulled it off of her arm, and dropped it with the rest of the bandages on the lid of the toilet. She looked up into the mirror and had to hold back a small scream. She really hadn't noticed last night, but now everything was all too obvious. No wonder the others had looked so concerned. A small gash over her left eye was one of the most obvious, and she touched it carefully, groaning when it sent a stab of pain across her forehead. Her arms and face were covered in small cuts and bruises, and the cut on her arm was starting to bleed again, mixing with the dried iodine on her arm.

She pushed aside the curtain and examined the knob carefully, trying to see whether it was a pull knob or a turn knob. Once she was reasonably sure it was a pull type, she turned on the water to a lukewarm temperature, not wanting to waste the water. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and she jumped. Chris's voice sounded through the door. "Oh, and don't worry about wasting water. It's hooked up to a pump, but just don't spend all day in there, 'Kay?"

"Sure," she called back. "Thanks!"

"No prob." His voice was muffled by the hot spray of water and her hiss as the steaming water touched the stinging cuts. She had to hold back another small scream as the water touched her injured arm, but she held it under the stream and ran her fingers over it gently, trying to wash off some of the dried blood. Once it was reasonably clean she started on the rest of them, wincing when she pressed too hard on dried blood concealing a bruise. When _that_ ordeal was over, she started using a small bar of soap she'd found in the bag along with a small amount of what was obviously Chris's shampoo. She rinsed off for one final time and then turned off the water, stepped out and grabbed the towel. A hasty scramble for the toilet paper ensued when her arm started bleeding again and she needed a makeshift bandage for it. When it was plastered in place by a mixture of blood and water, she dried herself off by rubbing herself vigorously with the towel, then quickly dressed and left the bathroom.

Before she could sit down at the table, however, Chris tossed her a comb and she realized with a blush that she'd forgotten to brush her hair. Back in the bathroom, she brushed it out and secured it back into a ponytail with an elastic thingie that she'd found in the now-empty bag. She put her bloodstained pants, shirt and socks back in the bag (she'd had to put her underwear and bra back on; there really wasn't any other choice) along with the bandages and left the small room, back in hand.

_Now_ Chris gestured for her to sit at the table, and she handed him the comb as she sat down.

"Thanks. I feel so much better," she said quietly.

"You look a lot better, too," he said, then blanched. "Sorry- I didn't mean for it to come out that way-"

"It's alright," she said, forestalling what had the promise of being a lengthy apology. "I know I looked like hell warmed over. Especially that gash- oh! Your bandages are really bad now- I'm sorry, they're covered in blood!"

Now it was his turn to stop her from going into an apology.

"It's okay. They're disposable. I need to rewrap your arm." He hauled the orange bag up from the seat beside him. "Here, put your arm on the table."

She complied, and he pulled the toilet paper off the wound with a gentleness that matched that with which he touched his flute. He rewrapped it carefully and laid it gently back on the table.

"Thanks," she whispered, feeling that lump rise into her throat again.

"Don't worry about it." Compassion was warm in his voice, and he gently touched her fingertips. "Don't worry. It'll all be alright, I promise."

"I know. I'm going to help him, and then we can be a real family again. He cares, I know he does."

Now he covered her hand with his own. "I'm not so sure about that," he said quietly. "But I'll help you in any way I can."

"Thanks," she said again, not moving her hand. She swallowed thickly and averted her eyes, feeling his eyes burning on her face.

She remembered the events from the night before clearly, but there was something missing, something _wrong._

"Only one thing bothers me," she said, still not looking at him. "When I woke up after he was done beating on me, he was on his back halfway down the hall, leaving a trail through the broken glass and blood droplets, and it looked like someone huge with bat and a grievance had gone after him. He was unconscious, but breathing, and I had this really bad sense of dread that was telling me to _get out of the house._ I don't know… it was really weird, but I was in a complete state of terror, and my head was killing me…. Thing is, he didn't even touch my head, and I _never_ get headaches… except when I play the violin."

* * *

Yep. Rewriting to the max, but this flowed really well... I had a really easy time writing it, but maybe that was because I had something to go off of as a basis and setting. Anyway, so there's Chapter Three: Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go? I would have uploaded it last night except for that error that Ficcynet kept having. Oh, well. Please Review. 


	4. Rocky Road to Dublin

Yo. Well, ABV's back for another chapter. Now that FLARF is over, I have more time, and I know so much more than I did before; now that I've been working behind the scenes extensively, and I even did two interviews. So that should help a bit. I'm also now getting a feel for what Reanna is going through; my friend that lives with us is a constant alcoholic and has been hauled out of the house by EMTs on several occasions, and I'm depressive-ish more often now, so I can really get into character now. There's a 50/50 chance that I'll be heading over to the Boynton Beach Faire tomorrow, and probably BARF for the two weekends after this, so... _three more weeks of ren-fest_! Huzzah!

Wizard116- my only reviewer for Chapter Three. -.-;; (Note the _hint_ here, guys. I'm looking for comments.) Thanks for reviewing. This one's for you, dude (or dudette.)

Notes: If you ever get a chance, please listen to Penderecki's Threnody. It's really eerie, and it's like twenty-six or twenty-seven strings players pizz'ing or bowing their way through, each a quarter-tone away from the next. It's really uncanny, and it's basically the seconds in Hiroshima before the A-Bomb hit. There are the sirens, and the plinking is supposed to be the screaming of a thousand voices... it's amazing. Go find a copy and take a listen. In fact, here's a link to it. www-somtow-com/music-html. Just replace the dashes with dots.

The Monroe Ren-Faire does not exist. I didn't want to use an existing one and get arrested on some trumped-up charge.

Who owns what: Ben and Jasmine, and Ms. Anastasio own themselves. They just made cameos 'cause they're special. :-P And the layout for the Faire was this year's FLARF layout.

And sincere thank-yous must go out to BoomerVet, HelocastH, ART4261, RDWink, and Orrngtns, for answering many odd medical, legal, and police questions about certain aspects of this chapter. Even though there is a very slim chance that they will ever read this, thanks guys. I looked for hours to find _one _person so answer my questions, and I find five all at once. Even though I had to search through what seemed like five-hundred idiots and twenty chatrooms to find you, it worked. And Craig from the Adrian Empire, for telling me what Renaissance people do on their days off. Thanks.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Rocky Road to ****Dublin**

Chris glanced at the clock. They still had two hours until Brad and Saera would come back.

"What do you mean?" he asked curiously, turning back to her.

"I get headaches when I play," she said, tugging nervously at the sleeve that covered her left arm. "Not bad enough so that I _can't_ play, and not all the time, but sometimes, when I'm doing a solo for a school concert, it's-" she looked like she was groping for the right words. "The headache is deep inside my brain, and it's almost like I can see the music floating on the air." She blushed. "Don't get me wrong; I'm not crazy, please don't misunderstand, but it's just that... I can see the music in the air, and the whole world around me disappears, except for the violin and the music. And when everything comes back, the audience looks like they're in a daze, but... five seconds later, they're all applauding, and nobody ever mentions being spellbound or anything like that. I've set the whole audience _crying_ when I play Time to Say Goodbye, and I can make them dance in the aisles when I play Devil Went Down to Georgia. But...it's like they all forget it. Everyone but me. And I don't _think_ I'm going crazy. Hallucinating, maybe. Crazy- no. I'm not crazy. And the headache I had when I came to yesterday- it felt like the music headaches, only much, _much_ worse. "

He stared at her for a second. Large green eyes full of fear looked back at him, and he felt his stomach do a somersault.

"You don't think I'm crazy, do you?" she whispered. She held his gaze for a second longer, then dropped her eyes, blood rushing into her cheeks.

"No, I don't," he said firmly, tightening his hold on her hand. "You're not crazy, Reanna, because if you're crazy, then we're both crazy."

_Flash of memory_

_He stood in front of the audience at __Piper__High School__, holding his flute to his lips, but his fingers weren't moving, and there was only a thin wail coming from the chilled metal. The audience stared at him, eyes gone frighteningly dead and lifeless. The members of the orchestra behind him had fallen quiet, pizzacato'd notes fading into the dead silence of the theatre. Penderecki's _Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima_ died away slowly, the flute's wail dying into nothingness. Christian stared at the formerly restless members of the audience. The parents and sisters and brothers and assorted relatives of the teenagers on stage gazed ahead, chilling him with their blank stares. He turned around slowly, fearing what he would see behind him. It was the same as the people in the audience. The other kids were limp in their chairs, violins and violas hanging limply from slack chins, and cellos and basses resting limply on the laps of their players. Ms. Anastasio, the conductor, was the same way, leaning lifelessly on her conductor's stand. "Miss?" he whispered nervously, hoping this was all a joke. "Miss A?" _

_He edged over and poked her with his flute. She didn't move. "Miss, please. This isn't funny any more. Please," he whispered. He turned to the still audience. Even his parents and older sister stared back at him with that horrible, empty stare. "Please, is someone _alive_ out there! Anyone!" he sank to his knees, and dropped his flute, wondering why he was suddenly so exhausted. A tear welled up in his eye and ran down his cheek. "What is happening here?" he asked himself in a harsh voice that seemed at once like and unlike his own. "What is this?" Emotion surged through him, and he screamed, a long, thin sound eerily like the flute he'd stopped playing. The flute. Where had it fallen? He looked around frantically for it, finally spotting it under the chair of one of the violinists, a girl with long, dirty-blonde hair named Jasmine. He snatched it from where it had rolled, and raised it to his lips as if to assure himself that it was safe. Of their own volition, his fingers pressed the keys and moved into a pattern he recognized as that of the opening to Ode to Joy by Beethoven. If there were only sound... he blew tentatively into the flute, startling himself with the crystal-clear quality of the Emerson flute in the absolute silence of the theatre. One note followed another, and soon he was playing all out, hoping desperately that the upbeat music would make everything go back to normal. He slowed at the end, and slipped into Spring, from Vivaldi's Four Seasons. Neither songs worked, and he was running out of energy. Somehow he mustered the strength to stand, and valiantly changed the tune to Hame, Hame, Hame, a song he knew well and prayed with all of his heart would work. It did. He vaguely remembered throwing every last bit of energy into the music, and wishing with all of his being for everything to _go back to the way it was

_He found himself playing from where he'd left off, as if nothing had ever happened- but he felt so weak! He led the orchestra to a screaming conclusion, then they all stopped. A moment of silence ensued- the kind that every musician prays that they'll see at least once in their life, and then the clapping started. He bowed, and dimly heard Ms. Anastasio announce to the audience, "That was sixteen-year old Christopher Banyon, leading the Advanced Orchestra class in Penderecki's Threnody for the Victims of __Hiroshima__!" _

_He heard the scrape of chairs as the orchestra members stood up to bow and then retake their seats to perform Carmina Burana, and then amidst clapping and cheering, he walked off the stage on trembling legs. Stumbling past other band members, ignoring the occasional whispered, "great job, Chris!" and "are you okay?" He barely made it into the changing room before he collapsed against a wall, legs refusing to hold him any longer. The only other occupant in the bathroom, a stout sousaphone player named Ben, stared at Chris. _

_"You okay, man?" he asked uncertainly, plainly wondering if Chris had some sort of contagious disease. _

_"Yeah," Chris muttered. "I'll be fine. Just lemme rest here for a while." He paused. "Hey, did anything weird happen in here a minute ago? Like dead quiet, and it felt like nothing was alive?" _

_Ben gave him a look. "No. Why? Are you seeing things? 'Cause if you're seeing things, then maybe I shouldn't be around you." _

_The redhead started edging towards the door, and Chris let his head fall back against the wall. "No, Ben," he said quietly. "I'm not seeing things." But Ben was already out the door, leaving Chris alone with the silent silver flute, and a memory of something unreal._

_Memory fades, and is replaced with forgetfulness_

"No, Reanna," he repeated quietly, just as quietly as seven years ago. "You're not crazy. And neither am I."

Her brow furrowed, and she stared at him. Her hand felt warm beneath his, and he squeezed it gently. "I don't think you're crazy. Because the same thing happened to me, and no one remembered it, afterward." Quickly, he outlined what had happened to him that gentle summer night in his sophomore year of high school. Her eyes got bigger and bigger as he told the story, and at the end, she finally blurted out the question that had been unanswerable for five long years until he locked away the memory.

Now it was open again, and so was the answer to the question.

"So what was it, then?"

"I honestly don't know. I've ignored the problem for years- it's time to find out what it makes us do, why and _how_."

"I agree," she said, nodding firmly. "But how? We don't know that we _aren't_ crazy," she said doubtfully. "And this thing- whatever it is, how do we even know that it attacked my dad? What if it's sentient? Or what if it came back after I left?" Her face went white. "Oh my god, I have to get home! What if it attacked him again while he was unconscious? I just left him there-" she pulled her hand from beneath Chris's and threw herself off the bench and towards the door, barely taking the time to pull her shoes on. "Reanna!" he said, finally realizing where she intended to go. "I am _not_ letting you go back there!"

"You can't stop me," she said as she laced up her sneakers. "I have to go home, don't you understand? If I killed him- god- I'll never forgive myself. He's my _dad_, Chris."

He sighed. "Look, if you'll just wait a minute, I can call your house and find out-"

"We don't have phone service anymore," she said quietly. "I cancelled it after I realized he wasn't bringing home enough to pay for the beer, food, utilities, _and_ the phone." She laced the other shoe on and jumped up. "Do you- do you want to come?" she asked hesitantly. He could see a trace of fear winding into her eyes. But was it fear that he was going to stop her, or fear of going back alone?

"Yes," he said. "Just let me see if we can borrow someone's car. God knows it'll be faster than the bus."

He made a quick call to one of the vendors, a woman named Sally who sold pottery and asked if it was okay to borrow her car. One of her kids was out running errands, but she knew that Jack- another vendor- would let Chris use his Jeep. He hung up and called Jack's camper. Jack's wife picked up and told Chris that Jack was over at their stand, making repairs to a broken shelf. He thanked her and hung up the phone. "You don't have a car?" Reanna asked as she watched him pull his Nikes on.

"No," he said. "I never saw the point. I've got friends who can lend me their car, and I can't take a car with me since I have to drive the camper."

He finished with his shoes, grabbed his keys, cell phone, and black nylon windbreaker, opened the door and ushered her through, then locked it behind them. As he led her down the path between the camping grounds and the Faire itself, she looked around with eyes full of wonder. He could have smacked himself. Of course she'd only been here at night, and been unable to see anything. He started pointing out various groups of tents, explaining who lived there and what they did for a living. As they passed into the Faire itself, she asked what Faires he knew of or had been to, and he began explaining with relish.

"There's the Sterling Forest Faire up in New York- I've been to that one. I really want to go to Scarborough Faire; it's a Faire about a half-hour south of Dallas, and they've got a permanent town set up there. One of my goals in life is to work that Faire for a while." They passed the point where the path divided between the Castle Stage and the lakeside path to the Joust, and headed towards the Joust field and the next fork.

"Oh. Do you ever go home?"

"What, to my parents?" he asked, slightly surprised that she would want to know about them.

"Well, whoever you have at home. Parents, siblings, relatives... girlfriend..."

He almost laughed out loud. It seemed like Reanna was jealous. "No, no girlfriend. I have no brothers or... sisters, anymore. My parents work at a law firm in South Florida. They retired there a few years back, so I visit them there whenever I work FLARF."

"FLARF?"

"Florida Renaissance Festival. It's in Southern Florida, in West Palm Beach. My folks work in Coral Springs, and it's not too far between them. Maybe a half hour if I take the Sawgrass Expressway."

"Ah." She obviously had no idea what the Expressway was, or the places he'd just mentioned, and they lapsed into silence as they walked on the mulch-strewn pathway through the mostly-deserted Faire, passing vendors making more wares, and actors leaving for demonstrations at schools in the area. Reanna received no few glances, even though the long sleeves hid most of the bandages and bruising. They took the last fork in the road leading to the Food Court and the Entrance, passing the Theatre in the G'Round and finally coming within view of Stoneware Goods, next to Perfect Pewter Presents, their goal. Jack's bulk heaved itself up from behind the counter at hearing their approach.

"Chris!" he said in surprise. "With a girl!" He put a hand to his heart dramatically. "It canna be! Nay, say the lad Chris had had the walls about him broken by a lass with curls the color of-" he squinted at Reanna. "What's your hair color?"

"Jack," Chris said warningly.

The man coughed. "Right, right. What can I do for you?"

"Can we borrow your car for about an hour, please?" Chris asked, voice still carrying the warning.

"Uh, yeah, sure. Just let me get my glasses." Jack fumbled with his shirt pocket for the thick lenses and slid the frames over his ears. His expression turned to one of shock as his eyes focused on Reanna's face.

"Oh my god." Faster than Chris had ever seen him move before, the fat man was between him and Reanna, putting her protectively behind his bulk. "Honey, did Chris do this to you?"

"Whu?" She sounded surprised. Chris was even more surprised.

"Chris, did you beat on her?" Jack asked forcefully. "She can't be more than sixteen!"

"What? _No_, you stupid whoreson! You _know_ I would never hurt someone like that! What kind of a sicko do you think I am?" Chris was fast approaching lividness at the thought that Jack, a _friend_, would think that he would _ever_ attack a defenseless young woman.

The little altercation had drawn one or two spectators, both of them actors in King Henry's Court, and one of them was one of the biggest gossipers in the Faire; Gordy Smarte, the man who played Peter, Archbishop of Canterbury.

He had to make it clear _now _that he had not in any way been involved in Reanna's beating. "No, I did _not_ do _anything_ to her. She just- she-" it wasn't his right to say what her father had done to her. "Reanna, do you want to tell him?"

"Not about what happened," she said quietly, and raised her voice. "Chris had _nothing_ to do with- this." She gestured to her face with one hand, and he saw her barely perceptible wince at the sudden movement. "He did not do this to me," she repeated, looking pointedly at the two onlookers. "He actually patched me up after it happened. He and Brad were very kind about it, and he's taking me home now, so please, don't get any ridiculous notions."

Chris glared at Jack, and the portly man flushed and moved out of the way.

"Sorry, Chris," he said, chagrined. "I just thought-"

Chris cut him off and moved to put his arm around Reanna, showing to everyone that he had no intentions of harming her. "Well, you thought wrong, Jack. I can't believe that you would think me so low as to beat up this innocent girl here," he snarled. "Can I have your keys so we can go, please?"

Jack shoved his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out the battered key to his old Jeep. "Just don't crash, kid," he said, trying to make a weak joke.

Chris grabbed the key. "Right," he said shortly, stalking off, Reanna still trapped under his arm.

"Jackass," he muttered under his breath as they neared the parking lot.

"I'm really sorry about that, Reanna," he said. "I honestly didn't think that he'd think something like that."

"It's okay," she said reassuringly. "I got used to it after a while until I started telling people that I'd joined the SCA. I spend so much time at the Renaissance Festival that they believed me after a while, and since nobody ever deigned to check out my story..." she trailed off, looking worried. "I really hope Dad's okay," she said quietly.

Chris decided not to comment, fearing that he'd say something to upset her. There had to be some way to make her see that what her father was doing was wrong.

He was about to mention talking to a counselor when his cell phone rang. "Hold on a sec," he muttered, pulling his phone out with his free hand. He looked at the screen. '_Saeeee'_ flashed on and off, and he pressed the Accept button on the keypad. "Something wrong?" he asked when he put the phone to his ear.

"_Where are you?_" she asked, voice muffled by the noise of knocking, apparently at his camper door.

"Borrowing Jack's Jeep," he said.

"_Oh... why?_"

"Reanna wanted to get something from her house," he said quickly, not wanting to tell Saera that the girl was afraid that some supernatural _thing_ had attacked her abusive, alcoholic father.

"_Oh_. _When will you be back?_"

"No idea. Within an hour, I hope. Why?"

"_Well, Brad and I wanted to take her- um, to see a psychologist in the area and then maybe go for lunch. You'd be invited, of course._"

"'Kay... I was actually thinking the same thing," he said as they approached the blue Jeep Wrangler.

"_What is she going to do about school?_" Saera asked, startling him.

"School?"

"_School, dimwit. High school. Unlike you, she is most definitely _not_ out of high school yet. She has school _today_. What will she tell them?_"

He repeated the question to Reanna, who smiled grimly. "Got it covered," she said. "They all think that my father is very, very sick. So it's perfectly excusable if I'm always staying home to take care of him, as long as I call first. It's also a convenient excuse as to why I'm always so tired. And it's the truth." She looked sad for a moment. "He is very sick. But he's going to get better, with my help."

Chris had to restrain himself from screaming, "But you offering yourself as a punching bag is _not_ helping!" He settled for tightening his arm around her. They reached the Jeep and he pulled the keys from his pocket.

"Uh, Chris?"

"Hmm?" He asked as he unlocked the door.

"You kind of need to let go of me if we want to get into the Jeep," she said, plainly embarrassed by the situation.

"Oh!" He hadn't even noticed the odd feeling of having his arm around someone. Almost reluctantly, he pulled his arm off, and she went around to the far side of the Jeep.

"You need to unlock my side," she called. He couldn't see her face, but he was pretty sure that she was blushing.

He opened his door and tried the unlock button- no go; it was busted. Sighing, he reached over and unlocked Reanna's door. She clambered in and he shut his door.

"Listen, Saera, I have to go."

"_Fine. Just don't get arrested or anything. Later._"

"Bye." He hung up and wriggled the phone back into his pocket.

The engine turned over on the first try, and he backed out of the parking lot. He made a mental note to get some gas, and another to tell Jack that he'd owe Chris fifteen bucks for said gas.

"So where do you live?" he asked, trying to figure out the shortest route to her house.

"On McNab Road and Farview Avenue. It's- if you go down Straitsman to Minarto..." and she explained their route as he drove, occasionally pausing to point out a landmark or tell him to make a right or a left.

She eventually directed them into a slightly lower-than-middle-class area, and the second the car passed the invisible line between the street and the neighborhood, her face grew anxious, she spoke less, and when she did speak, her words were barely audible. Even though she was obviously afraid, he could see that she was consumed with worry for her father.

'_How could she love such a monster?_' Chris thought.

"Here." She said the word so quietly that he almost missed it, and he stopped and parked the car on the street in front of the small, two-story house on the left. When he looked up, he was aghast. This- this _house_, if it could be called that, was so shabby and decrepit that he was surprised that city workers weren't already banging on the door and demanding that the house be fixed. The roof shingles were a faded black, and some were missing. The chain-link fence surrounding the small lawn was mostly knocked down, and it looked like at least half had been stolen. The grass _on_ the lawn was the brown and sere of grass beyond all hope of revival, and as for the house... the paint was peeling off, although someone had obviously made an attempt to put a fresh coat of paint on the lower story up to about seven feet. There were no shutters, but the outside of the windows were coated with grime, and he could see dust covering the inner face, obscuring any view of the inside. The front door was solid wood, though chipped, and it was a faded blue color. He could well imagine the charm that the small house must have had... once upon a time.

He swallowed and got out of the car, noticing Reanna's pallor as she, too, exited the car.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently. "You don't have to go in. All I have to do is knock on the door and see if he answers."

She looked like she was about to faint, but shook her head and said, "No. I have to see for myself if he's okay."

He started to walk up the path, but she motioned him back. "Better lock the car," she said with a small smile.

Feeling slightly stupid, he did so, and joined her in walking up the cracked cement path leading from the sidewalk to the front door. There _was _a garage, but he didn't trust the asphalt on the driveway.

Together, they walked up the path, and Reanna knelt in the dirt beside the stoop and began digging in it. Before he could ask what she was doing, she held up a small, dirty gold key and unlocked the door. He didn't get the chance to say "Wait!" before she was inside, calling for her father. He darted inside, shutting the door quietly behind himself, following the path in the... dirt... "You _live_ here?" he asked the empty air, appalled. A small feeling of terror and desperation began to wind about him, but he brushed it aside. There was dirt tracked everywhere in the tiny front hall, mixed with a lot of dead leaves. The walls were chipped, and had several holes that looked like they were made by a very beefy fist, and the furniture was similarly battered. Once fine oak pieces, they were now little more than broken boards of varying size held together by bent nails. What appalled him most, though, were the broken beer bottles and what looked like- '_No, it can't be_,' he thought in horror. There were rust-colored stains on the wall and floor, and a few that looked like... His mind shut down. Small handprints of old, dried blood were smeared on the wall of the foyer, and there were more on the stairs and on the floor leading to them. Obviously the victim had tried to drag themselves through the broken glass shards littering the floor-

The victim.

Reanna.

"Reanna?" he called, suddenly panicky. The terror had returned full force, permeating the very air of the hall. He glanced around.

There was a small kitchen off to the right, and what looked like a living room through a doorway to the right. Neither held the elusive Reanna.

"Reanna?" he called again, louder than before, more nervously. The desperation wasn't coming from him; it was more coming from the hall...

"I'm up here," she yelled from somewhere upstairs, voice muffled from more than distance or walls.

He stumbled up the stairs, and veered down the right hallway, passing several framed pictures on the wall, and nearly tripped over the filthy carpet that might have once been red. There was a door at the end of a short hallway, and it was ajar. He pushed it all the way open to reveal- nothing. He heard a small sniffle from his left, and turned quickly, expecting to see a large, drunk man holding Reanna hostage. Instead, he just found Reanna, sitting on the floor next to a closet, holding her head in her hands and rocking back and forth, the very epitome of misery.

"He's gone," she chanted. "He's gone, he's gone, he's gone."

"Who's gone?" he asked gently.

"My _father_! His suitcase is gone, and so's all of his stuff. He's gone, really gone this time. My dad just left me here... alone..."

She sniffled again, and he realized that she was crying into... something. He peered at her, trying to figure out what the thing was, and blinked when he realized that it was a tattered blue teddy bear. _Then_ the fact that she was crying hit him, and he dropped to his knees beside her and gathered her into his arms.

"Honey, I'm not going to lie to you. He left because he probably thought he killed you and he wanted to skip town instead of being convicted for being a murderer."

"But he- but he-" she hiccoughed and buried her face into his shirt. He crooned to her wordlessly and rocked her back and forth, as he had done for his older sister on many occasions, a very long time ago.

"Shh, hon. Shh. Just cry it all out."

Her face twisted into an expression of betrayal. "He left- he left-" and she squeezed the teddy bear tighter.

He stroked her hair in a soothing motion, and just held her. "What did he leave?" he asked quietly.

"Mr... Mr. Teddy."

The bear?

"I got it for him when I was six," she said in a very small voice. "We always used to bring Mr. Teddy to play with Mom, when she was in the hospital..."

Ah. The bear held a _very _special significance to Reanna.

He was about to murmur more words of nonsense, when he heard the clump of footsteps on the stairs. He stiffened, and she froze. "Wait here," he hissed in her ear. She nodded and clutched the bear as he rose and crept to the doorway. When he peered out into the hall, nothing moved. He took a chance and ventured out into the upstairs hall.

"Freeze!" a voice barked. "Come out with your hands where I can see them!"

'_Police?_'

He put his hands behind his head and walked slowly out onto the landing. At the foot of the stairs stood a portly female cop who looked to be about forty, holding a gun. In a split second it was pointed at him. "Hands where I can see 'em!" she repeated, and he raised his hands into the air.

"Ma'am, please," he tried to explain. "I'm here with the daughter of the man who owns this house-"

She ignored him and ascended the steps slowly, gun still held in both hands and trained on him.

"Don't move. I'm sorry, kid. I can't believe you until I can verify what's happened here. There's blood on the walls downstairs, and it looks like there was a brawl. I have to take you in for questioning." She reached him and instructed him to turn around. The second he did, she pressed him against the wall.

"Hands behind your back." He groaned and reached around, and felt the cold steel of the cuffs as they locked around his wrists.

"Is there anyone else here?" She asked coldly as she patted him down and removed everything from his pockets and belt, including the change in his pockets and Jack's car keys.

"Just Reanna- Reanna Wyr," he said slowly, trying not to seem like a threat.

She turned and looked down the hallway. He turned and looked too, and felt his heart break as Reanna stood silhouetted in the doorway, pitiful bear still held to her chest.

"Miss, I'm going to have to ask you to drop the teddy bear," the officer instructed.

Reanna dropped the bear, a look of confusement on her face. "Chris?" she asked. Her voice wavered, and tears began to build in her eyes.

"Reanna, please come here and do what the nice officer says," he said.

She walked over slowly, and the officer's eyes softened. "Honey, did this man do this to you?"

"No!" Reanna shook her head violently, wincing at the strain on her bruised neck.

"Who did?" The policewoman's voice was gentle, but underlying the soft tone was a promise of steel, and Chris guessed that she was _very_ angry.

"M-m-my-" Reanna started shaking and couldn't continue. "I can't!" she wailed softly. "You'll arrest him! We should have never come back here!" she cried as tears coursed down her cheeks.

"Reanna, it's okay. Do you want me to tell him?" Chris asked in a soothing voice.

"No- but- no!" she sobbed, voice turning panicky.

He turned his head toward the officer. "She doesn't want to tell you. Maybe if you take us down to the station..."

Reanna shook even harder, and the officer sighed. "Just- come on. Another officer will be here in a minute, and when he comes-"

"Leah? You in here?" A younger male voice sounded from downstairs.

"Up here!" Leah called.

A thirtyish-looking man wielding a gun cautiously made his way through the broken glass to the stairs.

"Leah, did you call a- God!" he exclaimed when his eyes lit upon Reanna. "You got him?"

"I don't know," Leah said. "He says he had nothing to do with it, and she said the same thing, but- look, just help me get them downstairs."

"Right." The man nodded and started up the stairs, holstering the gun.

"You help her downstairs and I'll get him." She jerked her head at Chris, and the younger officer nodded again. He put his arm around Reanna and Chris felt a flash of- anger? Wounded male pride?- and he led her down the stairs slowly while murmuring, "it's okay, honey. We're just going to get you to a hospital, and they'll fix you up."

Leah jerked roughly on his chain. "Let's go."

He stumbled down the stairs while she followed him warily, one hand still holding the gun, even though it was pointed toward the ground. She directed him to the police car and ushered him in, locking the door behind him and leaving him under the guard of the male officer while she asked Reanna some questions and made notes on a clipboard.

Chris sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose when he smelled old vomit, what smelled like stale pee, beer, and old McDonalds. He knocked on the window with his head, and the LEO looked down at him. "Can I come out, please? It really smells in here!"

The man rolled his eyes and shook his head. _No can do_, he mouthed through the window.

The flautist groaned and sank back onto the seat. There was no way his day could get worse.

**x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x**

As it turned out, it could. Chris watched in disbelief as a flatbed truck loaded a car that wasn't even his onto the bed and drove off.

'_Jack's gonna murder me._'

A crime scene unit swarmed the cordoned-off house under the interested eyes of the neighbors, and he could see flashes from the front hallway as a crime scene photographer took pictures of the front hallway, and dimmer flashes as another photographer did the same with other rooms.

He experienced sudden hope as a uniformed officer approached the car, hopefully to let him go, then felt defeated as the officer went _around_ the car to get to a patrol car parked across the street.

Reanna had vanished with the younger male officer- Chris never _had_ learned his name- presumably to go to the hospital, and he had no idea what was going to happen to him.

_Knock, knock_. Someone rapped on his window and he jumped reflexively. It was Officer Leah. "I'm taking you over to the station, kid," she called through the thick glass, and opened her door. "You hear me?"

"I can hear you just fine," he grumbled.

She didn't reply, and got into the driver's seat. Another officer he didn't recognize got into the passenger seat, and both shut their doors. "Is he supposed to look after me?" Chris asked sarcastically.

"Yes," came the biting reply, and he decided to shut his mouth. Leah started the car, and the car sped out of the scene, many of the neighbors pointing at the "suspect."

They passed buildings he didn't recognize, and other buildings he did before they reached the police station and Leah pulled the car around the back of the building. She parked the car in an empty spot and got out. "Head in and fill out a report," she instructed the other officer, and opened Chris's door. "Nice and easy," she said warily.

He rolled his eyes and levered himself out of the car, and was amused to see that he was taller than her by at least six inches. She led him up a set of steps and through a back door, bringing him to what looked like a conference room, complete with clean wooden table and two chairs. "Have a seat."

"Don't mind if I do," he replied, halfheartedly, and sat in a heavy, scarred wooden chair with no padding. At least the air smelled _clean_ in here. He jerked in surprise as Leah unlocked his handcuffs and put them back on her belt. "Thanks," he said grudgingly.

She said nothing and retreated to the corner, still fingering her gun. He rubbed his wrists, trying to instill some feeling back into his fingers, and waited to be told he could leave.

A balding African-American man dressed in an ugly brown suit entered through another door and sat across the small table, folding his hands in front of him as he did so. "Mr... Bonyan, is it?"

"Banyon," Chris said guardedly.

"Ah. Christian Banyon, twenty-four years of age, from Coral Springs, Florida?"

"That's right."

"My name is Paul."

"Hi, Paul!" Chris said enthusiastically, trying _not_ to sound sarcastic.

"What were you doing at 5612 Farview Avenue with Miss Wyr?" Paul began without preamble, ignoring Chris's Hello.

"Looking for her father," Chris said with complete honesty.

"Why?"

"Reanna thought he might be hurt, and I didn't want her to go back alone."

"Why was she with you in the first place? She wasn't at home last night."

"Guess she didn't feel like telling you why, hmm?" Chris bit out.

"Why don't you tell me, Mr. Banyon?"

"She was busy getting the crap beat out of her by her father, _Mister_ Paul," Chris sneered.

"Mr. Banyon, please calm down. How do you know she was beaten by her father? Did she tell you this? Was there a witness?"

Chris stared at Paul's suit. Was that... hair? "Just our friend Brad."

"And where is Brad?"  
"Back at the Monroe Renaissance Festival," Chris said.

Paul raised an eyebrow. "The Renaissance Festival? You work there?" His tone implied that working at the Faire was the work of an idiot, a slacker, or both.

"I travel with it," Chris said defensively.

"I see. And how long have you known Miss Wyr?"

"I've known _Reanna_ for a few weeks."

"And why was she with you last night?"

"I told you, she came to see me after her father beat the crap out of her. I don't know why she chose to come to me. I know she's afraid that you'll arrest her father and she'll never see him again."

"Why would she be afraid of that?"

Chris shrugged. "You're the professional. She loves her father even though he beats her. She chose not to leave him, she's afraid of everything, and I think she blames herself. I don't know anything else about it."

Paul's eyes glinted. "She loves him even though he beats her, is afraid, blames herself, and doesn't _want_ to leave him, you say?"

Rolling his eyes, Chris responded. "That's what I just said."

"BWS," Paul said under his breath, running his hand over his bald patch.

"Excuse me?" Chris asked, confused.

"Battered Women's Syndrome," Paul said, louder.

"Which would be..."

"BWS is a post-traumatic stress disorder associated with learned helplessness. Essentially, Miss Wyr believes that she cannot escape her situation, that she has brought it upon herself, and is too afraid to leave. She may also be experiencing low self-esteem, anxiety, depression, suspiciousness and loss of belief in the possibility of change. That she loves him- I can't say whether that's usual, but I think she'll need psychological therapy to undo this- if she wants to at all, that is."

Chris stared at him.

Paul continued relentlessly. "Who treated her wounds?"

"Brad and I did," Chris said.

Paul stared right back. "You sewed the wound on her arm?" Chris nodded. "You gave her iodine and gauze and bandaged what needed to be bandaged?" Chris nodded again. "You picked the glass out of the open cuts?"

"No, Brad did that."

"Are you aware that it is a felony for an EMT to treat a wound and not report it? Are you aware that it is a felony to not report child abuse? Are you aware that it is illegal to sleep with a seventeen year old?"

"I was going to file a report as soon as I convinced her to go to the police about her father. As for the second question, see the above statement," Chris said sarcastically. "And what the hell do you think I am to have sex with her?" he growled.

"Then why were you with her?" Paul asked mercilessly.

"Because I'm her _friend_, and _friends _help each other out."

"I think you should know that she is currently undergoing a kit, and if it comes back positive, if it turns out that her hymen was breached, you're going to be in a world of trouble."

"A _rape_ kit? I did not _touch_ her, moron! What part of '_I'm her friend_' don't you get? I would never in a million years do to her what her bastard of a father did to her!" Chris roared. Leah brought her gun out, and Paul's eyes narrowed.

"Please sit down, Mr. Banyon," he said coldly.

Chris didn't even realize that he'd risen from the table until he looked down at Paul, and back at Leah, and realized that he was staring down the barrel of a Smith and Wesson 9mm, and sat down rather quickly.

"Mr. Banyon, are you prepared to calm down and tell us what we need to know?" Paul asked, ice edging his voice.

"Yes," Chris said, defeated.

* * *

Hiron: Wow... a twelve-page, seven-thousand word chapter... ((is proud)) At various points during the writing of this chapter, Bruce had to literally drag me away from the computer because I almost fell asleep in my soup. See how dedicated I am? (Huzzah for Bruce!) 

Chris: ((snorts)) Right.

Hiron: Review...


	5. Gladys' Leap

I don't know what it is with this whole me-churning-out-new-chapters thing, but I like it. I have another chapter of Circles of Change almost ready to post, and Simply Charming Chapter Four and Fellowship Chapter Five are on their way. Man, changing my hours all the time messed with my head so much it got my muse going again. W00T!

And yes, I am well aware of the I-only-turn-out-a-new-chapter-every-few-months thing. The original "130 written pages" went out the window because I decided that plotline was something you only see in Mary-Sue fics. This is not a Mary-Sue fic. _This is a realistic drama involving fictional people in situations that do happen in real life._

Thanks to: Moonjava, Avara, Joska, and Moondance.

Notes: I'd like to make it clear that from this point on in the story, most of what I will be going on will be what I observed in various visits to the hospital and what bits of truth I can glean from "real drama" TV shows. Everything else will be **Artistic License **for those of you curious as to whether I've ever been to a hospital at all. If you'd like to correct me with some concrete information I can use, other than, "O that is sooo wrong thats not how they do it at al you idi0t!" please do. I appreciate people criticizing me and telling me what I need to fix.

The first song featured in this chapter was _Date Rape_, by Sublime. The second was the classic Greensleeves. The third was _Borrowed Time_, by Leahy. The fourth was _Here's to the Night_, by Eve 6. _Here's to the Night_ was also my senior class song, if anyone cares.

Another hand to Craig, whose persistence in getting me to return to Adria events has inspired me to write another chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Five: Gladys' Leap**

Reanna sat on the edge of the hospital bed and listened to the nurse prattle on about the results of the tests as she twisted Mr. Teddy's paws into a knot and avoided looking either of the nurses in the eyes.

"Your hymen is still intact, my girl, and since there is no evidence of–" here she lowered her voice and looked meaningfully at the other nurse. "Anal penetration, or mention of oral sex, we can conclude that sexual abuse was not evident in this case." She nodded at the other nurse, who made a notation on her clipboard. "We've restitched that wound on your arm and applied ointment to some of the others. And a prescription is currently being filled in the hospital pharmacy for antibiotics–some of those cuts are infected–so you'll have to take those. You've had a few cracked ribs–nothing we can do about those except bind them, which we did–" Reanna tried to shift into a more comfortable position, but the bandages around her middle underneath the paper hospital gown wouldn't let her. "–and–oh, look. Are you from Child Services?" she asked a craggy-faced man peering in at the door.

"Yes," the man said, extending a hand as he entered the room. "My name is Benjamin Sullivan, pleased to make your acquaintance." His sharp gaze lit upon Reanna. "This would be the girl?"

"Yes. Reanna Wyr, seventeen years old. Mother deceased, father missing, no known relati–"

The worker cut her off with a wave of his hand. "I know the details, Miss–" here he looked at her nametag. "Peskin. I'd like to speak with her alone for a few moments, if that's all right. I just need to ascertain a few things."

When the nurses had left the room, he pulled a chair up next to the bed. "All right, Miss Wyr. You have no living relatives on either side of your family, your father is missing, though we don't know why. The police said you wouldn't say, however your friend at the police station was most cooperative–"

"Chris? Where is he- is he okay, can I see him?" the words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"He's currently being held on bail since we can't corroborate his story. Care to make anu substantial corrections? He says that he's innocent of any wrongdoing in regards to you, other than taking you in for the night and giving you medical attention. He also claims that it was your missing father who did this to you, and that he's been doing it for a very long time. Is this true?"

Reanna didn't answer.

"Miss Wyr, if you don't confirm or deny his story, he can be released as soon as he can raise the bail money. Do you want that?"

"I-I-I–sir, Chris is innocent, sir. He didn't–he didn't beat me," she said quietly, muffling it in Mr. Teddy.

Leaning forward, he asked, "Then who did?"

"Mr. Sullivan–"

"Please. Call me Ben," he said, smiling encouragingly.

"Ben, if I tell you then you'll lock him up and I'll lose him. I can't."

"Reanna, if someone is beating you black and blue and cutting you up with beer bottles, it's considered child abuse. _He _obviously abused you. Tell me his name and we can lock him up."

"Haven't you been listening?" she began furiously. "I can't tell you! _He's all I have left, and he's going to get better!_ Just leave us alone!"

"If he's going to get better, then why did you go to the Renaissance Festival that night?" he asked reasonably.

It took a while for her to answer. "Because. . . I wasn't thinking very clearly, I guess. It seemed like a safe place, like a second home. I know the people there won't hurt me . . . so . . . I went."

He eyed her.

"I should have never left home," she stated bitterly, looking at the ground. "If I hadn't then this wouldn't have happened. All I do is make trouble or get people into trouble. Why is everything always my _fault_?" she cried the last word, and rose off the bed. "Where are my clothes?" she asked him. "I'm going to tell them to let Chris go."

"Do you even know how to get there?" asked Ben.

"I've been here loads of times," she assured him. "Please–can I go now?"

He gave her a sideways look. "Not until you tell us who beat you."

"I _can't_," she repeated. "Why can't you people understand that?"

"Reanna," he started impatiently. "We pretty much know it was your father, so why not just make it official and let us start officially looking for him on assault charges."

"But–" she began, looking frightened.

"Reanna, your father is a sick, sick man, and he needs help. They can give him that help, so just tell them it was him," a female voice came from the door.

Surprised, Reanna exclaimed, "Saera!"

The blonde woman sauntered into the room, past Ben, and sat next to Reanna on the bed.

"How did you know I was here?" the teenager asked quietly, avoiding her gaze.

"Chris called us first thing from prison and told us to find you. Being that this is the nearest major hospital, I came here first."

"He–he did that?" Reanna asked, awed that he wouldn't have tried to raise the bail money first.

"Yes, he did. Now would you please tell Mr. Sullivan here about your dad so we can go bust Chris out?"

"How did you know my name was Sullivan?" the child services worker asked in surprise.

"Uh . . . it said it on your ID," she offered lamely.

"My– hey, where's my–" he said, fumbling around in his pockets.

"Here it is," Saera said, producing a brown leather wallet and handing it to him. "I found it in the hallway," she finished smoothly, and let go of the wallet.

Feeling ashamed, Reanna cleared her throat. "Mr. Sullivan?"

"Yes?" he asked expectantly.

"Um . . . it was my father, sir. He . . . he was the one who . . . who beat me . . . sir," she said, barely intelligible. Saera put an arm around her shoulders in a comforting way.

Ben just nodded. "Can we get you to sign an affidavit stating just that, and if the need arises, testify against him in a court of law?"

"I . . . yes," she said reluctantly.

"Good. Now, if you'd just sign _here _. . ."

§

Chris was bored. Really bored. After Paul and Officer Leah had finished questioning him, he'd been left in this cell. This really boring cell. Not that it was a _bad _cell, it just wasn't a place he'd have picked as a vacation spot. It was empty of everything interesting save a cot that was bolted to the wall, and a bathroom behind a low wall. It would have been cold, too, except for the fact that they'd given him his jacket back when he'd asked for it.

Surprisingly, the old adage about getting only one phone call had proven untrue; he could make as many calls as he needed to, so first off he'd called Saera and told her to find Reanna, and to tell Jack what had happened with the car. Then he'd called Brad and told _him _to try and get him out of jail. Those had been an hour ago. Where _was_ everyone?

To amuse himself, he began singing.

"_Let me tell you 'bout a girl I know, had a drink about an hour ago. Sittin' in the corner by herself. . . _"

By the time he'd gotten to, "_One night it was getting late; he was butt-raped by a large inmate, and he screamed. But the guards paid no attention to his cries,_" the guard had come around twice and told him to shut up, and two of the other inmates down the hall had joined in.

"Have you no respect for authority?" A short, honey-haired man grumbled as the guard led him to the cell, and Chris stopped in mid-word and rose to face his friend through the bars.

"Thomas! Can I leave?" he asked hopefully, widening his eyes innocently.

"Not yet," Thomas said regretfully, crushing Chris's hopes. "When Brad called me–I was busy, and I left work to find that you were in jail over some girl you picked up off the street." He shook his head and sighed. "Chris, Chris, Chris."

"It wasn't like that!" Chris protested. "I was–she was–she needed _help_, Thomas! I couldn't just leave her like that! Brad and I practically had to lock the door to keep her from leaving, and then today she wanted to check on her dad, and this whole mess blew up, and—"

"Your parents called," Thomas said, cutting Chris off in mid-babble.

"I–what?"

"They called for you, but since you weren't home, I took a message and said you'd call back later. Your mom said something about finalizing the divorce, and that you'd need to sign some papers." Thomas looked at his friend sympathetically. "I'm sorry, man. I really am."

Chris looked at the floor. So it was finally official, was it? His parents were separating; Mom would leave and go to California like she'd always wanted, and Dad would probably stay put–he wouldn't want to abandon the law firm.

Frustrated that it had finally come to this, he tried to run a hand through his hair but winced when it caught in some tangles. He removed his hand and folded his arms across his chest and fell back against the wall in one smooth motion. Then he slid down it, entire posture of a man in defeat.

"All right. I guess I'm going to have to drive to Florida, soon, then," he said unhappily. "And I know that when I get there, they're just going to start bickering again and try to sign everything to me instead of each other." He sighed gustily and changed the subject. "Where did it go wrong? Where did _I _go wrong? I must've factored in somewhere, so what part did I play in this separation?" he looked pleadingly up at his friend, "You know me well enough, and you've met them. What could I have possibly done to prevent this?"

In that moment, Thomas pitied his friend. He was in jail, didn't know where the reason for it was, and had just found out that his parents were getting divorced. "Chris, look," he began, "You couldn't have done anything. When two people don't love each other anymore, they don't. Simple as that may seem, it happens a lot. Their kids can't do anything about it, and even when the parents do decide to stay together for the sake of their children, it rarely ends up going the way the children wish it would. Tension builds, and sometimes erupts into violence. I seriously doubt there was anything you could have done."

"I know," Chris whispered. I guess . . . if only Cammie was here. She'd be able to make them see reason."

"Cammie's gone, Chris," Thomas said gently. "Twelve years gone. Now you have to face facts. Your parents are getting divorced. There's not much you can do except support them through it; I bet it's just as tough for them as it is for you. . . thirty-five years of marriage doesn't end easily."

Chris nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right. How do you know so much about this?"

Linda Agorn was a marriage counselor, and coincidentally the woman Thomas was currently courting, and planning on sticking around for a while after the Faire was over.

"Linda told me. She's a marriage counselor."

"Oh," Chris said.

"But listen," Thomas said. "You can't dwell on what's past and what you can't help. Now, what's the status on the whole you-getting-out-of-jail-before-Wednesday thing? You have a demonstration at that private school at nine, remember?"

The flautist groaned. Of course. But they were paying him two hundred bucks, and teaching a bunch of kids was better than playing _Time to Say Goodbye _twenty times in a row in the semi-frigid air of Monroe, New York.

"Damn. I'd almost forgotten about that," Chris grumbled. "Hey!" he yelled at the guard, who had retreated down the hall to his desk and copy of _The New York Times _when the conversation had turned to Chris'sparents. "_Hey!_"

The guard looked up and scowled. "What?"

"When can I leave?" Chris called, and Thomas groaned.

"When your lawyer calls!" the guard yelled back.

"Did you call your lawyer?" Thomas asked.

"My lawyers are my parents," Chris told him. "Of course I'm not going to call them."

"Chris. . ." Thomas moaned, and the phone on the guard's desk rang.

"Yes?" the man growled when he'd picked up. "Oh. Yes, I see. Yes, I'll do it now. Thank you–yes, yes. Have a nice day." He huffed and stood up, walking around his desk to Chris's cell.

"You're free, kid," the guard said as he unlocked Chris's cell door. "The girl finally 'fessed up, so you get to go." He scowled again as Chris stood up, revealing himself to be taller than the guard. "Sorry for the misunderstanding."

When Chris had exited the cell, the guard slammed it closed and led them back down the hallway, past the desk and to another officer who stood waiting with Chris's things in a metal pan. "If you'll just sign this waiver, sir," the young woman said uncertainly, brandishing a piece of paper between Chris and the pan. He took it and scanned it; signed it.

"Where do I get the car?" he asked her, and she handed him a claims slip with directions to the lot that Jack's car was impounded in. He exchanged the waiver for the pan, and he arranged the objects among his pockets and walked out the glass front door with Thomas.

§

"So we need to go to the lot and get Jack's car, and then we can go–Chris? Chris, buddy, you okay?" Thomas looked at his friend, and his eyes narrowed. Chris was white as a ghost, and his gaze was fixed on something on the street that curved around the side of the police station. "Chr–oh. Oh, man. Don't look at that. C'mon, let's go." There was a wrecked car slowly being towed into the garage at the back of the station. Dried blood covered the front, and the windshield was cracked and crazed. From this distance, Thomas knew he was only imagining it, but he thought he saw little bits of hair and bone in the clear parts of the windshield. The rest of the car was undamaged, but it looked like the car had hit a person.

"C'mon," he repeated, and tugged Chris to the car. "Hey–you okay?" he asked. "Chris?"

"Did you see them?" the musician asked in a low, frightened voice.

"See what? The bits of . . . person?" Thomas asked, confused. Maybe he hadn't imagined seeing them.

"The shadows," Chris said. "Those dark shadows that were attached to the hood like they were feeding on it."

Thomas looked back at the retreating car. He couldn't see anything, so he told Chris so.

"You mean you honestly can't see them?" Chris asked, face pasty.

"No. Maybe you were in there too long and the sun's playing tricks with your eyes."

"They're definitely there," Chris said.

Thomas shuddered at the haunted look on the flautist's face. "Look, let's go, creepy boy."

Chris turned away as the last of the wrecked car crept away around the corner, and he got into the car, face returning to a normal color. .

"You know where this place is?" he asked Thomas once the car had been started and they were driving away from the police station.

"Mmm-hmm," Thomas said.

They drove to the impoundment lot, which turned out to be only a mile or so away, claimed Jack's car, and were soon on their way back to the park.

§

"I'm not letting you borrow my car again, Christian," Jack said sternly, surveying his car with his hands on his hips.

"I know, Jack."

"Good." The big man jerked his head toward the campers. "Go on. Maggie wants to question you, and I'm sure you want to get home."

"Thanks," Chris said, and started walking towards his camper. Halfway there, he ran into Maggie, the Entertainment Director.

"Heard you got into trouble, Mr. Banyon," she said casually.

"Uh. . . yeah, I did," he admitted.

She rolled her eyes. "Did you mention the Faire or get us involved in any way?" she asked him. If he got the Faire into trouble, the director would be brought into the mess, and Willy Lembeck did not like being brought into messes. He liked it even less when it had to do with something he was running, and if it did, hell would rain down on the participants of said mess.

So no, he didn't have to be brought into this particular mess.

Chris reassured Maggie that he'd in no way involved the Faire, then went his merry way, intending to go back to his camper to contemplate those shadows. They'd been dark and ominous looking, vaguely man-shaped in a distorted way, with huge glowing yellow eyes and reaching hands. . . .

Thomas had left to go park his Taurus, stating that he intended to find something to do that didn't involve friends in jail or damsels in distress.

Brad was who-knew-where, so he figured he was home free to worry about the shadows and figure out what he was going to do about Reanna. He hadn't really considered what was going to happen after last night, or what he was going to do with her. She certainly couldn't stay with him; could she? It would be inappropriate, he mused as he walked.

Hopefully Saera had gotten Reanna out of the hospital, but from that point, he had no idea where the blonde would have taken the violinist.

When he saw his camper, he knew. The setting sun was behind him, so he knew that the light coming from inside his kitchen wasn't sunlight. A little annoyed, he marched up to the door, intending to tell Saera off for breaking into his camper.

He opened the door and charged up the steps, only to come face-to-face with Reanna.

"Uh, hi," he said, suddenly speechless. Her green eyes widened. "Chris! Oh–I'm so sorry that they arrested you! I tried to tell them that you hadn't done anything, but they just wouldn't listen. This is really all my fault," she said, looking down.

Suddenly he really looked at her, and noticed that she was wearing old clothes that looked like they had a few bloodstains that matched the placement of some of her more noticeable scars. Then he noticed the bag.

"Where are you going?" he asked, already knowing what she was going to say.

"I don't know," she said. "Probably home."

_Not again_, Chris thought disgustedly.

"Reanna," he began, but she halted him.

"Please don't try to stop me," she said quietly. "I should never have come here. All I do is get people into trouble, and I've already imposed on you for one night. On top of that, you wound up in jail, and your friend's car got towed. All because of me. I've got my stuff back, and I'm going to go home and try to get back into a normal life."

"What about your father?" Chris asked heatedly, still blocking her way. "Who's going to support you, feed you, and clothe you?"

"I will," she said defiantly. "I fed myself and my father ever since he started spending every penny on booze, and I kept us clothed, too."

Unable to decide between startled and appalled, he asked her, "And you intend to survive without utilities as well?"

"No. We went without using much electricity after he threw me–broke the TV," she amended hastily. "Water is cheap, and I don't have or need a cell phone. Or a regular phone, for that matter."

"But–" he began again, but she pushed past him.

"Chris, please respect my wishes and let me go."

"Reanna!" he called helplessly.

"Tell everyone I'm sorry, and thanks," she called back, barely audible.

Saera came around the side of the trailer. "What's all the fuss about?"

Chris came down the steps and landed hard on the ground. "It's Reanna. She wants to leave again."

"If she wants to leave, there's not much you can do," Saera said as she shrugged, but he saw the concerned look in her eyes. "False imprisonment. . . ."

"She wants to go _home_!" he cried, and she snapped to attention.

"She told me she was going to a hotel!" Saera said indignantly.

"Home, she said," he told her, torn between racing after the girl and doing what she wanted.

Reanna had started walking again, hiking her small bag up on her back, ignoring the curious stares of a group of squirrels.

"Saera, do something!" Chris said helplessly as Reanna marched towards the path leading to the Faire entrance and the bus stop.

"Reanna!" Saera ran after her, and stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She said glanced nervously at Chris, said something too low for the flautist to hear, then Reanna looked back at him critically. "That's not enough of a reason for me to stay, Saera. I'm sorry," she said.

"But he does care! We all care!"

"I know. I just don't want to trouble you any more."

"How 'bout this one? You go home and you're gonna die," Saera said seriously.

"Die?" Reanna said uncertainly.

"Yes, _die_. He left town because he thought he killed you. If he has the guts to come back, he's going to find that there's a manhunt for him, and that he's wanted on charges of child abuse, child neglect, and attempted murder. If he finds you he'd going to be pissed enough to try and merit those charges; he'll be that desperate."

Saera looked desperate and beautiful. Her frizzy hair was in disarray, and her eyes looked haunted. "He will kill you, Reanna. Before I wasn't sure, but I am now. He will."

Cynical, Reanna asked, "How do you know?"

Impatiently Saera said, "I just do. Please don't go. At least wait until he comes back into town," she pleaded.

"Can you prove it?" Reanna asked.

"I–yes, I can. Just stay, will you?" Saera leaned in again and whispered something in Reanna's ear. The girl's resolute expression slowly melted, and without looking at Chris, she walked back towards the camper.

He reached out to pat her on the shoulder, but she ducked under his hand and went into the camper. He gave Saera a hard sideways look, but she shrugged it off and followed Reanna. Confused, he reentered the camper and shut the door behind him. Reanna was sitting at the table, and Saera was sitting across from her, leaving him the decision to sit wherever he pleased. He chose to box Reanna in, and sat next to her without quite knowing why.

"The explanation?" Reanna asked pointedly.

"Ah," Saera said, looking uncomfortable. "Well, I um . . . don't quite know how to put this, but . . . my parents were . . . my parents were criminals, to put it in a nutshell." Chris was about to protest that her parents were perfectly nice people, but she noticed and held up a hand to stop him. "The parents you know aren't my real parents, Chris. My parents were cruel, cold Amish people who lived in Washington quite a few years ago. They abused me quite often, calling it discipline, and one day my father took it too far. He dragged me out into the woods and tried to rape me." This was said with no inflection in her voice, and Chris knew that the calmer Saera was on the outside, the more emotion she was feeling inside.

"Quite fortunately for me," she continued, "there were some very kind people watching my house, and although they couldn't find me in time to stop the rape, before he could kill me, they quite literally swooped in and carried me off."

Saera pulled a necklace that Chris hadn't noticed before out from under her shirt. "I carry this with me as a reminder of them, and how they healed me." She wouldn't remove the pendant from her neck, but fortunately it was on a long chain, so Chris got a good look at it after Reanna was done. It was a simply cut, clear red stone mounted in a silver setting that wrapped ivy tendrils around its prize, but the setting was intricately made, with every miniscule leaf molded in detail, including the crease in the middle of each leaf.

"You know, I'm sure a jeweler would kill to know how they did this," he said conversationally. "So you gonna tell us the rest of the story?"

She nodded. "After they rescued me, I spent some time healing, and then they found me foster parents who had once been in the same situation. _Those _are the parents you know. Now I keep an eye out for children in the same situation, like you, Reanna. I thought I recognized the signs, but I couldn't be sure–you hid them so well."

The violinist nodded, clearly unsure whether to take that as a compliment or not.

"They also couldn't come here, so I couldn't very well ask them for advice, so. . . ."

"So who were these mysterious saviors of yours?" Chris asked, interested despite himself.

"I don't think you'll like the answer, so we'll avoid that, shall we?" Saera said, giving him a plastic smile.

"You brought up the way to make her stay, now you finish it," he said.

"Chris," she said. "You've played _Shi Beg, Shi Mor,_ right?"

"Way to change the subject," he told her.

"I'm not. What was the song about?"

"Elves?" he said uncertainly.

"Elves," she said, nodding. "Precisely a battle between dark and light elves. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"Your protectors were elves?" Reanna said hesitantly, looking surprised and a little hopeful.

"She's quick," Saera said to Chris.

"Wait, are you telling me that those people who rescued you were _elves_? Like the kind that bake cookies?" he asked, unsure whether she was playing a joke or not.

"Yes, and no, they don't bake cookies."

"Elves. We're talking pointy-eared people who trap people underground and hold them there until a hundred years have passed, then they let them go and the people age in a second then die, right?"

Saera winced. "That's happened. . . ."

"Why couldn't they help me?" Reanna asked.

"They couldn't help you because they're currently embroiled in an all-out war with their Dark counterparts."

"War among the elves?"

"You got it," she said, looking uncomfortable.

Chris decided to change the subject. "How did they know how to find you?"

"They looked for my mind. Do you know what psi powers are?"

"No . . ."

"Telekinesis, pyrokinesis, empathy, telepathy. . . "

"Oh, those. Like, uh, moving things with your mind?"

"Yeah. Telekinesis. It's like . . . to them, psi powers are kind of hard to find, but if you really look hard enough, they're like little moonflowers in a sea of dead orchids. At least, that's how my teacher put it. It's how they found me."

"So what's your power?"

"I can move things with my mind," Saera said.

"Like what?" Reanna asked, fascinated.

"At age seven I could move a penny across the table just using my mind. I can do more, now, but if I use it too much I get a headache."

"And I can assume that's how you got into the camper?" Chris asked, only half sarcastically.

"Yeah."

"Show us."

She sighed and reached into her pocket. "I knew this was going to be hard to get you to believe me."

Her hand dropped a penny on the table, but it didn't fall flat. It landed on the side and started rolling around the table. When Chris managed to tear his attention from it, he saw that Saera was staring intently at it, and when her eyes went in a certain direction, the penny went that way.

Hesitantly, he reached out and waved his hand on all sides of the continuously-moving penny, nearly colliding with Reanna, who had reached out her hand to do the same.

"So it's real," he said rhetorically. "Elves, tele-whatsit, all of it. Great. I guess that music power is real, too, then?"

"Music power?" Saera asked sharply.

"Chris and I both have this thing where we can do things to our audience. I can make them dance to jigs, and cry at arias, and he freezes time," Reanna explained.

"Do you, now?" a voice said out of nowhere.

Saera paled. "Brad, please tell me that was you."

"Nay," the voice said out of the same place. "Bards," it said, and Saera froze. "Of course," she muttered. "Why didn't I recognize it before?"

"Bards, you will prepare yourselves to be taken by Lord Mergause," the voice said. Outside the camper, there was a loud banging of metal on metal. "Bards! Come out!" a male voice shouted.

Saera stopped Chris from getting up with a Look. "Let me," she said, and rose from the table, crossed to the window. "Damn," she muttered, face pale. "It _is_." Turning back to the other two, she instructed them, "Stay here and _do not _go outside. As a matter of fact, don't even go to the windows. Chris, do you still have your SCA armor?"

"Yes," he said, puzzled why she would need it, and itching to look outside.

"Can I borrow your helmet and your chainmail shirt for a few minutes, please?"

"Uh, yeah." He went into his bedroom and pulled his armor chest out from under the bed. Rummaging through it, he finally pulled out his rarely used steel chainmail shirt. It would be heavy on her, and so would the helmet, but if she wanted it. . . .

He returned to the table, where she was binding her hair into a quick, messy ponytail. She grabbed the armor from him and practically dived into it, keeping her hair tucked under it. "Helmet?" she asked, and he handed it to her. Then she turned and reached for the fold-down ladder in the hatch in the ceiling. When she'd got it down, she clapped the helmet on her head. The banging outside was louder.

"Bards!" the voice shouted. "My patience wears thin! Come out before I blast your Iron monstrosity to pieces!"

"We're coming!" Saera shouted back. "Identify yourself! Seleighe Court or Unseileighe Court!"

"I would never be seen with those Seleighe dogs!" the voice shouted in indignation.

"Good," she muttered. "Now I have no problems with what I'm about to do."

She grabbed Chris's sword from the corner before he could protest, climbed the ladder, opened the hatch, and squirmed onto the roof. Instantly, Chris rushed to the window just in time to see Saera land on a man dressed in blue-black armor and knock him to the ground. The man screamed, but Saera didn't move.

As Chris watched, some of the man's armor seemed to melt away. He screamed again and shoved Saera off of him.

"Chris, get your flute!" Saera screamed as she rapidly rolled away from the advancing man–no, _elf_, Chris corrected himself as he noticed the pointy ears–and managed to roll to her feet and run behind a tree.

Chris lunged for his flute-case, which stood on the counter next to the sink. He fumbled it open and started jamming pieces together, while Reanna watched the fight worriedly.

"What should I do?" she fretted.

Saera looked over and saw her at the window. "Stay inside!" she yelled as she ran from her tree to around the camper where she couldn't be seen by the humans _or _the elf. There was a resounding _clank_, and Saera staggered back into view. There was a smoking dent in the helmet, and she was shaking her head as if to ward off dizziness.

"But--"

"Inside!" Saera shouted back as she struggled to remove Chris's sword from its sheath. _Oh no,_ he realized. It was peace-tied to keep within the dress codes, and she couldn't get the plastic strip off.

Chrisgrabbed a kitchen knifeand flung open the door.

Saera ran back around the trailer. Apparently she was leading the elf in circles."Shut the damn door!"

He pulled back inside and slammed the door closed as the elf rounded the rear corner of the camper. It saw the closing door, snarled, and grabbed for Chris, but the door closed, and its bare fingers splayed against the black matte paint job. It screamed and pulled its fingers back–_it's a wonder no one's come yet_, Chris wondered–and ran after Saera again, who was panting beside a tree. Clearly, she was at the end of her rope. A hail of pinecones picked themselves up from the ground and threw themselves at the elf, but it snarled and batted them away with its sword.

He opened the window and threw the knife at the elf. "Not working!" Saera shouted. "Get--"

Then he had an idea. He jumped into the cab areaand turned on the camper. Then he proceeded to try and run over the elf. It dodged and nearly danced around a tree that was in the way. It wasn't so lucky when a writhing root caught its foot and unbalanced it.

Saera came back into Chris's viewsight around and finally managed to pull his sword into the open air. She lunged at the elf, who was still cartwheeling, and plunged the sword into its chest. It didn't even scream, but folded around the blade. Before Chris's astonished eyes, it seemed to disintegrate into nothing. Saera sighed with relief, let the sword drop to her side, and trudged back toward the now-parked camper.

"Why'd you body-slam him?" Chris asked as she rid herself of the still-smoking helmet and he climbed out of the cab.

"My teacher's motto was 'Always strike the first blow,'" she told him, but her eyes were troubled.

Reanna was still staring at the spot where the elf had been. "Why did you have to kill him?" she asked quietly.

"He was trying to kill me," Saera replied. "And to send a message that the Dark Court isn't going to drag us into their war."

"Oh."

Chris decided to change the subject. "Reanna? What exactly did the Child Welfare people say when they got to the hospital?"

"He wanted me to sign some papers," she said. "And . . . I have to go back to school tomorrow. Mr. Sullivan said that if I don't, I'll get reported for truancy."

"Can't you get your GED?" Saera asked curiously, trying to free her hair from the chainmail.

"I don't know enough," Reanna said reluctantly. "What with me being 'sick' and all, I'm not smart enough to pass the test. If I had been, I'd've dropped out a long time ago, gotten my GED and busked all day till I could find a better-paying job."

"You busk?" Saera asked in surprise.

Reanna rolled her eyes a little. "I busk to put food on the table and clothes on my back. Apparently I'm good enough for people to drop money in my case every now and then, so I live off of that."

"Speaking of which, you wanted to get it, right?" Saera asked as she finally freed her hair and shook it out from the ponytail.

"Yeah . . . I left it in the attic."

"Why the attic?" Chris asked curiously.

"I had to hide it up there because my dad would've hocked it for beer if he could've found it. It's not a Strad or anything, but it _is _worth a few."

"Hundred?"

"Thousand," she said. "I inherited it from my great grandfather."

"Wow. It must be a pretty good instrument," he said, impressed.

"Oh, it is. Can we get it? I don't know what the temperature will have done to it; I usually don't leave it up there for more than a few hours at a time. . ."

"Sure," Chris said with forced cheer. Back to the circus.

"Chris, Jack said you got off with Maggi–well, hel-lo! Can I assume that you're the infamous Reanna?" Thomas asked as he clambered through the door. "Saera, why are you holding Chris's armor? And Chris, why're there knives everywhere?"

Chris looked. There _were _knives everywhere. In his haste to find a knife to throw, he must have knocked the rack onto the floor.

"Long story," Saera said. "Listen–it's dark out. Would it be possible for you to take Chris and Reanna over to her house so she can pick up her fiddle?"

"You want to go _back_ there?" Thomas asked Chris in awe. "You're a real nutter," he said. "But I'll take you, if only to see you get arrested again.

"Gee, thanks," Chris grumbled.

"Shall we go, then?" Thomas asked, taking Reanna's hand and placing it in the crook of his arm like a gentleman.

Chris had to restrain himself from snatching Reanna from his friend and pulling her under his arm. Saera must have noticed the brief flash of annoyance on his face, for she looked intently at him, but said nothing.

Thomas pushed open the door and led Reanna through the campers, leaving Chris and Saera behind in the trailer.

As they walked away, Chris heard Reanna exclaim shyly, "You have purple eyes. Wow. Those're kinda rare."

Chris felt like there was something stabbing him in the kidneys.

"Listen, I'm gonna head home," Saera yawned. "It's been a rough day."

"Have fun," he told her sourly.

"Something wrong?" she asked him sweetly.

"No," he growled. "I'm going after them. Watch your back."

"Will do, lover-boy."


	6. The Bells of Rhymney

Hah! ABV has concept art, a.k.a. _a cover_, drawn by my sister's boyfriend, whose praises and faults I do sing.Look on my profile for the link!#squeals# I'm just so gosh-darn _happy_! I have a job, _concept art_ (which is a new concept for me, too), some new inspiration, I've finally figured some personal things out, and my jaw doesn't hurt anymore!

Thanks to Moonjava, Lizai, and TrudiRose. I'm glad you guys support this.

Notes: And a slap upside the head to me, who has officially quit Adria. I still wrote another chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Six: The Bells of Rhymney **

"Lover boy?" Chris asked, turning to face her as he grabbed his gig bag keys. "What's _that _supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," Saera said in a voice that sang, 'oh, something.' The sword clanked as she pried her hand off of it and dropped it onto the table.

"Saera. . ." Chris said, trailing off for a moment before he figured out what he wanted to say. "I'm tired. I just spent the last six hours in jail, unable to sleep because the guy down the hall kept screaming when his ecstasy monsters got too scary. I started seeing shadows on man slaughtering cars when I got out. Now I have to go back to the place I was arrested at to get her violin. I need to go after Thomas before he—" before he what? What could—_would_—Thomas do to Reanna? Nothing. "—before he leaves without me," Chris finished. "Just tell me what you meant."

"Nothing, really. It's just the way you look at her—"

"Reanna?"

"No, Thomas," Saera said. "Yes, Reanna. Like there's some confusion in your eyes, but also like a longing—"

"Not you too," Chris groaned. "I just spent at least an hour convincing first Jack, then a police detective that I wasn't in a relationship with her. Come on, Saera," he groused. "I'm not that kind of guy.

"Now if you'll excuse me," he said flippantly, ushering her out the door and turning to lock it, "I have a young _girl_ to escort to her house."

"Riiight," she drawled. "And you're a young _man_ with competition in the form of one Thomas S. Wright. Go get 'er, Tiger."

Before he could snap that he had no attraction to Reanna and that Thomas was busy courting a woman with two children, she sashayed off.

Then he remembered that she was still wearing his armor, and instead of cursing, decided to let her return it later. She might need it, and he still needed to catch up to Thomas and Reanna. Unable to resist one last parting shot, he called after her, "Are you sure you aren't gifted with the power of mass delusion?"

In answer, a pebble-sized amethyst whizzed through the trees and came flying at his head. He yelped and managed to catch it before it left him minus an eye, then stared down at it. It laid limp and almost glowing in his palm, and before he had too much time to think about it, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket as a physical reminder that Gifts—and elves—did exist.

§

Saera groaned as she hauled herself through the trailer door and wished—not for the first time—that they had a tent. It would have been so much easier just crawling through a tent flap than it would have been to take the time to key the wards, unlock the three locks on the trailer door, and finally heave open the steel-core door. But then again, they wouldn't have air-conditioning, a stove, or actual beds. And at least this way she and Brad each had a tiny dresser for themselves. Not to mention that you couldn't ward a tent. Or you could, but it was just rather difficult. It was hard enough warding a mostly Cold Iron heap of metal; putting wards upon a piece of fabric that could move any which way the breeze blew just wasn't worth the effort. Plus—most of the Sidhe wouldn't dare come near a human-made trailer, let alone inside it. That wasn't exactly comfortable for any Seleighe that wanted to see her, but it was handy if any Unseleighe came a-knocking, like the one that showed up the September before last. She dropped down onto her bed with a clinking of chain—_aw shit, I'm still wearing Chris's armor_—and remembered September seventeenth.

_"Saera Wright, human foster child of Elfhame Windweather, we request your presence outside your Cold Iron shelter _now

_Saera thanked God and Daana that Brad had chosen to travel up to the Sterling Forest Renaissance Faire with Thomas this year, and ran to the window, raising the blind _just so_ so she could peek out. Standing in the middle of the campground were an Unseleighe knight—in full pale red armor, including helm, though the faceplate was pushed up—and a redcap. Huddled on the ground in front of them was_—Sweet Daana, no—_a little girl whose face streamed with tears and snot as the recap hissed something in her ear. _

_"You will either come with me or Grima shall slaughter every human in this camp, starting with this _child_," the elf snarled, gesturing to the misshapen child-form that gripped the girl's limp arm in one tightfisted grip. Its breath rasped as it stared at her, and its grip on the girl's arm tightened. The soft cap on its head wasn't as bright as fresh human blood could be, and it looked. . . _hungry_. Saera shuddered. Lydia and Thom had always told her that for all redcaps might not look like much, they were dangerous; could tear out the throat of any man in a heartbeat, and could not be stopped by Cold Iron. _

Now what, genius? _She asked herself. _You've got one hungry-looking redcap out there, and if looks are anything to go by, a po'ed Sidhe. Do you a) run away? b) try to stop the evil elf from killing the kid? c) scream and stare helplessly? or d) call for backup?

_She couldn't just leave the innocent campers to be mauled to death by a hungry redcap, and she certainly couldn't stop it on her own. Saera decided that she liked Option D best, and reached for the athame on the wall without taking her eyes off the scene. Before she could grab it, however, the Sidhe opened her mouth again. "My patience grows thin, witch. Grima is growing hungry!" _

"_I'm comin'!" she shouted, and grabbed the athame. She also grabbed three carving knives from the 'kitchen' drawer, her Faire dagger, and a small square of chainmail that Brad had left under his bed. _

_While she chanted the lyrics to Aretha Franklin's '_Rescue Me_,' she heard someone—a man, by the bass tones—outside, shout, _"Hey, what're you—"_ that was cut off by a yell and a thump, as if the Unseleighe woman had flung the man violently away. _

_Knowing she had little time before more campers noticed the altercation, Saera sped up her chanting, and with the athame slashed her left palm and clenched the resulting mess around her pendant. That took care of the backup. _

_The mail she wrapped around one hand, she stuffed two of the knives and the dagger into her belt, and gripped the third carving knife in her wounded hand with a wince; there was no time to bind it. Lastly she held the athame in her chainmail-guarded left hand, hoping this desperate ploy would work. _

_Then she kicked open the trailer door and stepped outside. _

_The Sidhe woman stared at her dripping hand, then laughed. It was a cruel, cold sound. "Blood magic?" she snorted. "And here I thought humans weren't permitted that. No matter." Before she could finish, Saera threw the carving knife at the redcap, which squealed and dove aside. Redcaps might not be uncomfortable with Cold Iron, but they were still susceptible to normal weapons. _

_The little girl fell to the ground without the redcap holding her up, eyes blank. The Unseleighe woman smiled cruelly at the little body and then kicked it aside. Saera howled a wordless challenge and drew another carving knife. This time, guided by her Gift, the knife flew straight and true. The woman shrieked and threw herself sideways onto the ground.  
_

_Then—movement to Saera's right. _The redcap!_ She tried to dodge it, but it grabbed her wrist and used that to lever itself up onto Saera's chest. It snarled and ripped at her throat, and Saera almost saw her life flash before her eyes—_

_An arrow from the side took the redcap down. It didn't even have time to howl before a second arrow struck it in the eye, and with a last seizure-like grip of Saera's shoulders, it fell off backwards, gurgling. _

_A thunder of hooves passed her as she kicked the redcap away, and she looked up to find Adriel ferch Alleine—her original foster sister—mounted on Windstar, ride past, bow already back on its saddle-hook, sword drawn and mouth open in a scream of challenge as she spurred the elvensteed at the knight. Adriel was in full armor—ornate silver plate that was filigreed and etched and engraved and inlaid with green enamel. It was something that Thomas would have killed to learn how to make, and Saera winced when the knight drew her sword and parried Adriel's swing, following it up with a dagger thrust to Adriel's back that left a long scratch along the plackart. _

_Adriel swung 'round angrily, and as she engaged the knight—the _other_ knight, for Adriel was a knight of the Seleighe Court—in one-on-one combat, Saera saw her chance to get the child out of danger and shucked her weapons, wincing as the makeshift glove stuck to the sticky blood on her wounded palm. As Adriel leapt off Windstar, drawing the pitched battle a few more feet away, Saera dashed in and grabbed the girl, who proved to be much heavier than the woman had estimated. The dead weight hindered Saera's movement, but she managed to haul the girl into her trailer. She laid the little girl gently on her bed, then went back outside to find the man who she'd heard confront the Unseleighe only minutes before. _

_Part of a bushy grove that shielded Saera's trailer from the rest had a large hole in it, so she climbed through it, and found a large, beefy man on his back, unconscious, midway through a bush, buried under branches he'd crashed through in his passing. Saera feared for his life upon discovering the single branch that speared _through_ his abdomen from the back, and she dearly hoped that it had missed vital organs. Sweating as she heard the battle outside heat up, she left him where he lay—moving him now would only do more harm—but she picked up a handgun she'd found a foot away from his body—perhaps one of the reasons that the Unseleighe woman had flung him away so violently. _

_Holding it in a slightly shaky hand, she climbed back out, only to be confronted by a rearing elvensteed with silver—and very, very sharp—hooves. _

"_Windstar, it's me!" she shouted before the elvensteed recognized her and writhed away, narrowly missing her head by a matter of inches. She shoved her way around it and tried to aim the gun at the Sidhe who wasn't wearing her foster sister's colors, but the two women were parrying and thrusting and blocking so quickly that Saera couldn't be sure of a clean shot without harming Adriel. _

What do I do?_ she fretted. _I can't shoot without possibly hitting Adri, and I can't not help.

_Then she remembered the knives she'd dropped on the ground. Cursing her stupidity, she dove for the athame, the dagger, the spare carving knife and the bloody chainmail. She arranged the chainmail around her hand like it had been before, picked up the dagger, discarded the athame as being too flimsy, and grabbed the carving knife. Then she steeled her courage and walked toward the battling Sidhe. _

Just one blow,_ she pleaded with her trembling hands. _Just one quick blow, and I swear, the only things you'll be doing for the rest of the month will be singing and repairing clothing. _  
_

_The unknown elven knight had just blocked a heavy blow from the weakening Adriel when Saera took the chance and plunged the dagger into her back, stopping only when the hilt banged against the cool red metal. The armor melted before the steel like soft butter, and the elf screamed as the Cold Iron entered her skin. Saera watched in horror as the metal of the woman's armor disintegrated in an ever-widening circle around the hilt of the blade, and the flesh with it. She gagged and looked away just in time, for Adriel's sword swept the Unseleighe's head off in a clean arc, and the body toppled to the ground. Adriel sent a distracted burst of baelfire at the corpse of the redcap, which burned to nothing, leaving them both to watch the Unseleighe woman crumble. _

_As the last of it disintegrated, leaving the dagger in the dust, Adriel pushed the faceplate of her helm up and embraced Saera as best she could with the armor and still-drawn sword. When Saera's back cracked, she let go of the smaller woman and drew back a bit, looking down at Saera. "Are you all right, little sister?" she asked, sea-green eyes clouded with worry and something else that Saera couldn't quite decipher. "I came as quickly as I could, but had I been but a moment later, I fear I would have been too late." _

_Saera nodded uncertainly, wondering what she would have done had the redcap actually gotten its teeth in her neck. Then she remembered that she had killed one of the Sidhe. One of the Fair Folk. Not only had she killed any Sidhe, she'd killed an elven knight. She was doomed. _

_And she had killed. Suddenly that seemed like the only important thing in the world, and her breakfast came back up as she gagged, then turned away from Adriel, retching. She heaved until the last of her breakfast was splattered on the ground under her nose, and then she heaved some more. _

_When she finally wiped her mouth, she looked up to find that she had an audience, and that Adriel was nowhere in sight. _

"_Adri?" she said automatically before one of the men stepped forward and said, "Miss, what in the _hell_ just happened?"_

"_Sorry," Saera gasped, realizing that she had to think _fast _if she was going to explain this one away. "I breathed in some of the gas, I guess." When some of the men looked at her skeptically, she 'elaborated.' "My barbecue—uh—my barbecue exploded. I am so sorry—I'm going to call the manufacturer tomorrow and complain," she said, enforcing the words with every ounce of telepathy she possessed. No one had seen the fight, so she wouldn't have to mess with memories. She could see people nodding, and she further supported the thought with an image of an exploding barbecue that she'd seen online a few years ago. "I guess there must have been a defect in the tank, because the whole thing—well—boom. And—ohmigod! I just remembered about that guy! There's a guy in the bushes that got thrown backward by the blast, and he landed on a stick and it just went through—" she pointed at the bushes, hand shaking, and a few of the men ran towards it. Cries of horror went up as they found the man, and someone yelled, "Call for an ambulance!" _

_In the ensuing confusion, the wounded man was carted away by an ambulance, and Saera managed to slip away before the police arrived. With a little mental distraction to those watching, she managed to sneak her knives and athame back into the trailer and under her bed or in their slots in the knife-rack. Then she'd brought the still unresponsive girl out and given her back to her parents with an apology and a whispered prayer—the girl was breathing, but she looked and felt—_dead_. A second ambulance took her and her parents awa, and then the police arrived. Thankfully the Unseleighe woman had left a few shards of armor behind, and Saera had claimed that those were all that was left of her barbecue. The burned spot where the redcap had been was 'where it exploded, officer,' when the policeman had asked her about it. _

_Later that night, when the ruckus had died down, she found Adriel waiting in the middle of a grove of trees on the other side of the small campground. The elven knight was now dressed in green and gold riding leathers common to the High Court, blending in with the surrounding foliage perfectly. _

"_The child will be—fine," Adriel said almost hesitantly. "I have visited her in yon hospital and wiped her mind of the memory of the Unseleighe touch. She will still have nightmares, but they will be—lessened. . . ."_

_Saera sighed with relief, then hesitated. "Adri," she said, seeing the sadness in her foster sister's eyes. "What's wrong?" _

"_You should not have had to kill," Adriel said. _

"_I had to," Saera replied. "To end it quickly before any more people saw—the fight." She paused. "I didn't want to, you know. I didn't enjoy it in the least. But you might have died. It was necessary." _

_Adriel looked sad for a moment, then looked away. "I should go," she said. "I'll be missed." _

"_Missed? Adriel—what's going on?"_

"_A war, Saera," the elf said before she summoned Windstar, then swung up onto the back of the black 'steed easily. She looked down at Saera from her saddle, and reached down to lay a hand along Saera's cheek. "A war between Light and Dark Sidhe. Stay safe, _ainm ceana_. Remember what Teryn ap Gavelin taught you. Strike first at a Sidhe you know to be allied with the Dark Court and that comes for you. Any in doubt—use your best judgment. You know the Bright; now know the Dark. Stay safe." And with those words of warning, she was gone._

§

A silver Ford Taurus pulled up in front of the battered-looking gray house and parked on the curb; police tape encircled the house and blocked the driveway, and a police cruiser was parked in the driveway. The back doors of the Taurus opened, and Chris and Reanna clambered out. Thomas had elected to stay in the car, so the two just shut their doors and cautiously ducked under the yellow tape and started up the driveway.

"Are you okay with this?" he asked, aware that he'd asked almost those exact words in the same spot only a few hours ago.

Reanna just nodded, and he fell silent. When they reached the cruiser, a police officer stepped out of it, hand laid ever-so-casually on his gun.

"Can I help you?" he asked. Chris noticed a few crumbs in his moustache but decided not to mention them.

"This is Reanna Wyr—the—uh—daughter of the guy that owns the house. We were here earlier, and she just wanted to get her violin out of the attic so it doesn't get ruined."

"Do you have a picture ID stating that she lives here?" the man asked skeptically, eyebrow raised.

Chris turned to look at Reanna. _Did _she have any identification cards?

Surprising him, Reanna produced not only one, but two ID cards. One was a state ID, and the other was her school ID badge.

"Where is it?"

"The attic," Chris told him.

The cop raised an eyebrow.

"She hid it up there so her father wouldn't sell it for beer," Chris explained, but the eyebrow remained up. "It's worth a lot," he said wearily. "He knew that, and so did she, so she hid it where he wouldn't look."

"Alright," the cop said grudgingly. "I'll have to escort you—just let me radio it in."

He leaned back into the cruiser and talked it over with a police operator, then got back out of the car.

"Let's go," he said, shutting the cruiser door.

He led them up to the front door and unlocked a newly installed police deadbolt with a key, then let them in. Evidence of forensic investigating was everywhere; the blood on the walls was black in the darkness until the cop turned the lights on, and it looked exactly the same as it had earlier.

Reanna led the up the stairs, pausing only to reach out to touch one of the bloodstains, but the cop snapped, "Don't _touch _that!" and she pulled her hand back. Down the hallway and into was clearly her room they went, and Reanna went into the closet while Chris stared in horror at her room. The only thing in there that could be called furniture was an old bed that looked like it would fall apart if he so much as blew on it, a dresser, and a set of drawers. More blood was on the wall, but it looked like a lot of it had been covered up with white paint—some of the stains were barely there. The window was fractured, and there were pieces of duct tape covering some of the larger cracks.

A muffled thud came from inside the closet, and he turned. The officer was helping Reanna climb down from the clearly makeshift pull-down ladder while she clutched a large, relatively new rectangular violin case in her arms.

She hopped down the last step and laid the violin case reverently on the floor and unlocked it while the cop watched. Then she ran the zipper around it and opened the case and lifted the blanket and set it to the side. Revealed was one of the most beautiful violins that Chris had ever seen. It was carved from maple, like all violins, but this one. . . _shone_ almost. From the classical scroll to the very subtle vine-and-leaf pattern inlaid in the highly flamed back, it was a work of art.

When she removed the velcro strap and lifted the violin out of the case, he blinked and shook his head to clear his eyes; he thought he'd seen electric blue tendrils reaching from Reanna's fingers to the strings.

As she examined the violin and tested the strings one by one, the police officer examined the case, which produced only two bows, a cake of rosin, an electric tuner, a metronome, extra strings and a sheaf of sheet music. He handed them back to her one by one after he'd looked for anything suspicious, and finding nothing.

She placed the items in their compartment, slipped the bows back into their holders, and gently laid the violin back into its niche and strapped it back in. Only then did she look back up at him with a smile of relief. "It's okay," she said. "I thought leaving it up there for so long might have done some damage, but there's absolutely nothing wrong with it."

"You have what you came for?" the cop asked gruffly.

Reanna nodded, and ushered them out. As they descended the stairs, Reanna looked at the bloodstains, but didn't try to touch them again.

They left the dark house and walked slowly down the drive, where Thomas was waiting in the idling car. Reanna slowly climbed into the backseat, still cradling the violin case, and Chris got in after her.

"Back to the Faire?" Chris asked, and Reanna nodded. Her eyes were bright, and he could see that she was struggling against a lump in her throat, so he let her be and just watched the road as Thomas drove.

When they pulled down the dirt road that led into the Faire, she finally looked up, composed. "Thank you," she said quietly. "This violin means a lot to me."

"Don't mention it," Chris replied equally as quietly. Thomas didn't say anything, and he parked the car next to a large motor home that had a small red cargo trailer attached to the end that was used to transport all of the wares.

"Thanks, Thomas," Reanna said quietly. "Yeah, thanks," Chris added, and then they all got out of the car and went their separate ways; Thomas into his camper where he was greeted with a resounding chorus of, "Hey, Thomas, have a beer!" and Chris and Reanna back to Chris's camper.

When they got there, Brad was outside but Saera was nowhere to be seen. He looked up at their approach and grinned. "Hey, been looking everywhere for ya," he said. "I heard you got arrested."

"Dear god," Chris said, "does everyone know about that?"

Brad nodded emphatically. "You're never gonna hear the end of it," he said. "Wren found out from Saera, and it's gotta all over the camp by now." His grin grew, and he switched it to include Reanna. "They know about Reanna, too."

Chris looked sharply at him, then down at Reanna. Her cheeks were tinged pink, and she stared at the ground. He leveled a glare at Brad, who shrugged. "Most of them are proud of you for taking her in, Chris," he said. "Janice ain't too happy, but there's not much she can do without looking the fool." Chris groaned.

"She's not. . . back, is she?" he asked, annoyed. To him, Janice Crawson was the very epitome of irritation. She seemed to think she was in love with him, despite the fact that he'd tried to make it _very _clear that he had no attraction for her. The girl was positively nauseating, following him around when the Faire was closed for the day, always insinuating herself into a group he was in, always trying to drag him off somewhere to confess her love for him. . . . It had gotten so bad that he'd wound up begging her grandfather to move to another circuit so he could get some peace. The old man had had Chris complaining about her before, and seen the weariness in Chris's eyes and seen how jumpy he was, and agreed. He'd also mentioned that he'd been meaning to travel the Western U.S. Circuit, and then packed up and left at the end of the Langston's Jewel Medieval Faire in South Carolina, and Chris had had nearly three months of glorious peace. If they were coming back. . .

He didn't want to think about it. He _really _didn't want to think about the possibility of pretty, airheaded Janice running around the Fairegrounds, selling flowers and annoying the hell out of him, and probably asking incessant, tactless questions of Reanna.

"Tell me she's not coming back soon," he muttered.

"Much as I hate to say this. . ." Brad trailed off, and Chris winced. "Just say it."

"She's already back. She drove up an hour ago, and immediately came over here." Brad grinned. "I think you should go see her."

"No. If she wants to see me, then she can come and find me. I'll be out shopping," Chris said as he stepped up and unlocked the camper door. Reanna followed him silently, not saying anything, and Chris frowned. What was wrong?

When they'd gotten inside, she placed the case on the table and opened it again. She tested the strings again, then looked up at him, where he was standing by the phone, wondering if he should call his parents.

"Do you mind if I tune this?" she asked quietly. He knew something was off with her, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Go right ahead," he said. "I'll just be in my room. Knock if you need me," he added as he grabbed the phone and walked into his room, closing and locking the door firmly behind him. He sat on the bed and looked at the phone in his hand. Should he? Just to see if he could do anything. . . . he probably couldn't. A few months, or hell, even _years _ago he could have, but not now. He started to put the phone down, then paused. _What the hell_, he thought, and dialed.


	7. Johnny Jump Up

Brittany, this is for you for constantly bugging me to update.

Song to listen: Savage Garden: Crash and Burn

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Johnny Jump Up**

"Hello?" A female voice answered the phone like a receptionist—calm, cool, and emotionless.

"Mom?"

The voice warmed instantly. "Chris! Hi, honey, I was just about to call you—when I called, Tommie said you were out, and I thought you'd be back by now, so—"

"Mom?" Chris interrupted quietly.

"What is it, baby?"

"Are you—are you and Dad really getting divorced?" he knew he sounded like a frightened child, but he really didn't care.

"I—" Simone Banyon hesitated, and the bottom dropped out of Chris's stomach.

"Mom, _why_?"

"Baby," his mother said pleadingly. "Can't we talk about this some other time? When are you coming home? I was thinking that we could go and visit Cammie—"

"_Mom_," Chris ignored her wheedling tone. "_Why are you getting divorced_?"

"Why are you asking me that when you already know the answer?" his mother retorted, losing her cool facade.

"I know it's not because there aren't children in the house anymore. Is it—Mom, is he cheating on you?"

"No." She must have heard him take a breath to ask the inevitable next question, because she added, "and I'm not cheating on him either, so get that thought out of your head."

_Why _had he thought that?

"I just can't take this—this—this _lack of love_ in this house. Everything revolves around work, your father and I don't sleep in the same bed anymore, and we just fell out of love, Christian. It's as simple as that."

_Nothing's as simple as that. _He lifted his arms and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes in frustration. "Mom. . . . ."

"Christian, don't whine at me. Just accept it. You knew this was coming."

"I know, but I just thought—"

"_Please_, Christian, can we talk about something else?" She sounded desperate now, and he sighed.

"Fine, Mom."

§

When he came out, Reanna was still poring over her violin, and she looked pensive about something.

"What's up?" he asked, and she looked up, startled. "Oh, I didn't see you there." She looked closer and frowned. "Are you okay?"

"My parents are getting _divorced_," he told her tightly. "Do you _think_ I'm okay?"

"I—" her eyes widened and she drew back slightly. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"Shit, I'm sorry. I've just had a bad day and now I'm taking it out on you."

She looked a little relieved, and some of the tension left her body.

There was still something nagging at him from behind her eyes, and he wondered.

"Listen," he said, trying not to sound overly enthusiastic as an idea hit him. "Do you want to go out and get something to eat in a little bit?"

She looked startled, then her brow furrowed. "I guess. I mean, I don't have that much money on me, but if you want—"

"I do. And I'll cover it if you don't have enough," he said.

Slumping a little, she agreed.

"It's—what, six now? Let's go out at seven."

She nodded and pulled a tube of birthmark concealer from her violin case.

An hour later saw them borrowing Thomas's Taurus, and off they went. "Do you know this area very well?" he asked, and she nodded.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Uhh…" Someplace semi-cheap but clean. "Denny's?"

"Turn right here," she said, and he had to stop short to make the turn.

"Little warning next time?" he asked sarcastically.

"Sorry," she said sincerely.

"I was kidding," he told her.

"Oh. . . sorry," she said.

"Geez, stop apologizing."

"Sorry."

"Just stop," he said.

She looked subdued. "Left," she said quietly.

Did his opinion matter that much to her?

The Denny's came up on the right and he turned in and parked.

They got out of the car and made their way past a black family and a group of teenagers and then past a throng of middle-school students clustered around the claw machines in the entrance.

When he held open the inner door for her, he noticed that her hands were shaking slightly, but he chalked it up to hunger and exhaustion and ushered her in.

The waiter sat them at a booth in the corner and Reanna sat with her back to the restaurant; small wonder, when he thought about how many people had turned around upon seeing her face and hands. Her hair concealed her face from the other patrons and people stopped staring after a few seconds.

"So," he said conversationally. "What're you getting?"

She opened her menu and looked it over. "Fries and water," she said, citing what looked to be the cheapest two things on the menu.

"That can_not _be it," he said firmly.

"I'm trying to save my money," she said defensively.

"If it bothers you that much, I'll pay," he offered.

"No, I—"

He lifted up his menu and used it as a partition between them. "Pick something," he told her.

When the waiter came back, Reanna ordered one of the Scrambles and water and he ordered a burger.

After the waiter had left, they lapsed into silence until something caught Reanna's attention.

"Look, it's _Reanna_!" A cuban girl drawled and popped her head out from around the booth partition. "Where ya been?"

"Um, hi Renè," Reanna said quietly.

"Hey, who's your— My _god_, what happened to your _face_?" In an instant the girl was out of her seat and next to Reanna, an arm around her shoulders. "Are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Was it this guy?" Renè turned to glare at Chris, and two more heads looked over the partition.

"No, he's . . ." Reanna went on to explain—an edited version, of course—why she was with Chris while he fumed about Renè's accusation. The angry faces on the other side of the booth wall eventually relaxed, and eventually, Renè asked, "So, you gonna introduce me?"

"Okay. . . Chris, this is Renè, one of my classmates. . . ."

"We're friends," Renè said firmly.

So Reanna did have more friends than she let on.

"This is Chris," Reanna said after a second.

"Oi! We wanna meet this guy, too!" the two teenagers whose heads were hovering over the edge of the booth chorused.

"John and Kay," Renè supplied for the pudgy boy with glasses and the girl who vaguely resembled a shih-tzu.

"Ah." Chris extended a hand to each, and then the waiter for Renè's table came with their food.

"C'mon, Renè, we gotta clear this stuff."

Renè retreated to her table, and Chris peered over the section. On their table was a map of Georgia and dozens of little plastic figurines that were scattered in what he vaguely recognized as a pattern that was nowhere near random.

"This is—"

"Risk," Reanna said. Chris was startled to realize that she'd moved around the table to sit next to him and was now on her knees on the plastic seat. "You already took over Asia?" she asked John. "Stupid move."

"Huh?"

"You'll see," she informed him.

Sure enough, after Chris and Reanna's food had come, there was a whoop from Renè's table and fervent cursing from John.

"You owe me twenty bucks, lardass! I _told _you, Asia is _crap_!" Renè enthused.

Apparently John paid because there was no more noise from the other table from then on until the three left, waving goodbyes to Reanna and a flirtatious "Call me!" from Kay to Chris.

During that time, Reanna remained on Chris's side of the table, and she stayed there until they left. She looked happier than she'd seemed in a while, but he didn't bother to ask why. A little satisfied, even. He paid for the meal and Reanna left the tip, and then they left.

When he turned the car on, Chris realized that a gas stop was in order. When they stopped, Reanna ran inside while he pumped gas, explaining that she needed some gum, and he watched through the window as she went straight to the counter, talked agreeably to a teenager at the counter and then paid and came back to the car clutching a brown paper bag.

He watched her get in, noticing something shifty about her movements, and then ignored them from that point on, deciding that now wasn't the time to be paranoid.

He drove them back to the Fairesite in companionable silence, and Reanna almost immediately excused herself to the bunk above the cab and pulled the curtain.

Rustling noises told him that she'd emptied the paper bag, and he wondered what was in it before he decided that it was really none of his business and left the camper to see Saera.

§

Careful. _Careful. _Reanna unscrewed the bottle cap carefully, trying not to spill any or make much noise. Her hands shook a little as she raised the tiny bottle to her lips and drank, and then when the liquid hit her system, she relaxed a little and knocked back another of the little bottles. Then another, and another and another. All she wanted to do was forget. All she wanted to do was be numb.

More of the precious liquid, and more and more until she ran out, resorting to sucking the last drops from each bottle. She still needed _more_ if she wanted to forget, but she couldn't get any more.

A rush hit her system, increasing the effects of the liquor and making her wish she hadn't eaten anything.

Just before she drifted into dreamless sleep, she had the sense to shove the bottles to the far side of the mattress, into the small space between bed and bulkhead.

There; it was hidden.

She closed her eyes.

§

Sunlight streamed into Chris's eyes and he groaned and rolled over.

A groan from the other side of his door made him a little more aware, and a rummaging through his bathroom cabinet made him bolt upright.

He stumbled out of his room, bleary-eyed, to be confronted by nothing more than a sick-looking Reanna holding an open bottle of Ibuprofen and her hand in front of her mouth. She swallowed, and he blinked. "Are you okay?"

"Headache."

He turned around to go back to bed when his alarm clock went off and he remembered that he had an appointment at the school. Speaking of school. . . .

"Don't you have school today?" he asked Reanna, who was brushing her teeth vigorously in the bathroom.

She finished up with her teeth and nodded. "It doesn't start for another two hours. I'll take the bus."

"I'll take you," he said, shaking his head. "Where is it?"

"Rochester High—it's on—"

"Atlantic and Rock Mountain," he interrupted her. "That's where I have to go. So we'll probably see each other at some point during the day."

"Okay," she admitted. "But I won't be in Madame Renault's room until like one-thirty, so it'll be a while."

"Oh," he said, feeling a little disappointed. "I'll be teaching in Mrs. Brimmer's class all day."

"Oh. . . ."

"But we can still eat lunch together. Do they allow that?"

"Tell you what," Reanna said, perking up. "We're generally allowed to eat with a teacher if we have something we need to discuss with them. Renault is usually cool about that, so I can get you from Renault's class at like twelve, and then we'll go to Renault's so she can interrogate you."

"Fine with me."

She disappeared back into the bathroom and he went to go change in the sanctity of his room. Before he closed the door he sniffed the air suspiciously, but the whiff of vodka had vanished. He shrugged and headed for his dresser.

After a ten-minute inner debate over what to wear, he settled on his nice swordsman's shirt, jeans and boots. He pulled them on and then left his room in search of coffee and to wait for Reanna to vacate the bathroom.

Two cups of Folgers later, he was humming the theme song and still waiting for Reanna to come out.

"You dead in there?" he called, knocking on the door.

"No. . . ."

"Then what're you doing?"

"Concealer."

Duh.

She came out a few minutes later, and he could barely see her bruises. Most of her skin was concealed by a forest green turtleneck that looked a little too short for her, but he didn't say anything and neither did she.

It took him all of five minutes to get ready, and by that time Reanna had gotten her shoes on and was stuffing two notebooks into her bag and zipping up her violin case.

He put his own shoes on, grabbed his flute case and Thomas's car keys, reconsidered, and grabbed another cup of coffee for the car. "Want any?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"I don't drink coffee, but thanks."

"M'kay. Let's go."

§

A classroom full of adolescent woodwind-players stared at him, and he stared right back.

How long had it been since he'd had to face a class? Probably at least three years—since his senior year of college, probably.

He'd thought he was teaching high-school age children, not junior high!

"So, Mr. Banyon." The teacher watched him from the other side of your desk. "Let's break the ice with a question, shall we?"

"Sure," he answered not-quite smoothly. Why was being here bothering him?

"Alright… Why don't you tell us something useful about yourself. Say. . . . what would you do for a Klondike Bar?"

The kids giggled and he found himself smiling. "Well, I guess I might fight Yuri of Adria for one. He fights dirty and doesn't call blows. And he bites."

More giggles, and the teacher stood up from behind her desk. "Well, then. I'm sure the children have a lot of questions about what it's like to be a professional musician, so I'll let you get to it, then." She retreated behind her desk, leaving him to face the horde alone.

"Okay. . . . who has questions?"

Multiple hands shot up into the air, and he picked an innocent-looking redhead. "Yes, Miss—"

"Anne," she replied blushing. "Why did you want to travel instead of playing with an orchestra?"

"There are a lot of people vying for an orchestra seat, but there are never enough seats to accommodate them. I liked playing for happy people and I liked traveling, so I jumped on the Faire bandwagon and haven't left since."

"What about money? Does it pay well?" a kid with a completely shaved head asked. Chris wondered if that would have been allowed when he was in middle school.

"It pays decently," he answered truthfully. "Sometimes I have to fight to supplement my income, but other than that I get along fairly well."

"Were you the guymy brotherarrested yesterday at Rana Wor's house? He said it was prolly you."

The rest of the children hushed.

"Reanna Wyr?"Chris asked, hoping that the boy had pronounced his version of the name correctly.

"Reanna Wyr, that's it," the boy said distastefully, not stopping for breath. "It was on the news last night andmy brother said the guy they arrested was with the Renaissance Festival and since you're a flautist with the Renaissance Festival, we figure you gotta be him. Are ya?"

_No. Oh, no no no. It was on the _news _that I'm a flautist with the Faire? God, Maggie and Willy are gonna have my ass..._

"Richard!" Brimmer admonished. "It's very rude to ask something like that." She paused, then eyed Chris uneasily. "Were you?"

"It was a misunderstanding between myself, Reanna, and the police. If you'd like to speak to your school's security guard, he seems to already be aware of the situation," he explained smoothly.

Indeed, when the security guard had escorted him to the room that morning, he'd mentioned to Chris that he sympathized with the musician and had expressed anger at Reanna's father. "_I just can't believe it of Steven. We went to high school together, drank sometimes. What turns a man bad? What makes him lay a hand on his kid? I got kids, and I'd never, ever raise my hand to do more than spank 'em. If only I'd known this was goin' on. . . ._"

Mrs. Brimmer jerked him back to the present. "I'll be sure to do that, Mr. Banyon. In the meantime, why don't you show the children some of the songs you play at the Renaissance Faire?"

She watched him like a hawk for first few songs he'd chosen, but the stirrings of an idea prompted him to see what he could do about it.

He started with "Sidhe Beg, Sidhe Mor," segued into "Johnny Jump Up," then played "Greensleeves," all the while focusing on just _how much _he wanted her to relax and trust him and regret that she'd had suspicions about him.

Eventually she relaxed, and he breathed a sigh of relief. At least _that _was settled.

By the time the class was over, he'd successfully taught one group of students a simple reel, another a jig, two flautist girls a ballad, and the rest of the children had expressed interest in learning the lyrics to "Donald, Where's Your Trousers" and "Fairy Story," so he'd taught them that.

The next group of children filed in and set up their instruments while he suppressed a groan.

These kids were an actual orchestra, all twenty of them comprised of string-players only. And he had no idea how to teach a bunch of strings something that he only knew to play on a woodwind.

Great.

§

"Geez, did you _hear_ about her house?"

"Yeah, did you know her dad's been beating her?"

"Did _you _know I heard that he killed her mom?"

"Did you hear?"

"Did you hear?"

"_Did you hear?_"

Reanna cast a sideways glance at Mr. Mulling's desk. The old man was nodding off over their tests; there would be no help from him. She tried to ignore the whispers and rumors, but there were too many of them. Just when she thought she was going to scream right in the middle of third period Algebra II, Renè poked her.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I—uh—" she couldn't think of anything to say, so Renè said it for her.

"Hey, everyone!"

"Renè, what are you doing?" Reanna hissed as heads turned their way.

"Saving your ass," Renè said smugly.

"Reanna is not sleeping with her daddy. Yeah, she was smacked around a bit, but _that's all_. You can all shut the fuck up right now or you can keep spreading rumors that ain't true. But if y'all decide to keep 'em up, I'll kick your ass."

Antonio popped his head up off the desk where he'd been sleeping behind Renè. "Me too," he grumbled. "You all're making too much noise, and you're being bitches." He dropped his head back to the desk with a thud.

People started whispering, and Reanna didn't dare look anywhere else but at her desk. She could _feel _their eyes staring at her from all angles and was just glad that she'd chosen a seat at the front of the room. Suddenly a paper ball hit her in the side of the head and dropped into her lap. She picked it up to throw it back in the general direction it had come from when she noticed that there was writing on it. When she unfolded it, a huge, block-letter "_Sorry!_" confronted her, surrounded by hearts.

She looked back and saw Jeffrey Davies waving at her. _Sorry_, he mouthed. Other students either mimicked him, grinned nervously, or wouldn't look at her at all.

When the bell rang at the end of the period, she was the first out of the room, Renè on her heels.

By the time she made it to the bathroom, she was holding in tears.

"Hey! _Hey!_" Renè grabbed her before she could lock herself inside a stall.

"Are you okay?"

"I liked it so much better when they forgot I existed," Reanna gasped, shaking. "Now they all stare constantly and I think I'm going to go crazy before lunch."

"Calm down," Renè urged, ushering her into the handicapped stall as the bell rang.

"Sit." Renè pushed her down onto the floor, and Reanna had less than a second to shove her books under her as she sank.

"Now. We're going to sit here."

Reanna felt dubious. "Um, are we allowed?"

Renè laughed. "No, that's why we're here. Everyone else is in class and no-one will bother us. I wanna talk to you."

"About?"

"You need to relax. This will all go away in about a week; the rumors never last too long."

"A week?" Reanna asked, panicked. "I'm about to go crazy by next period and you want me to wait a week?"

"Be happy you aren't pregnant. Remember Lindsay Harris?"

"No. . ."

"Pregnant last year, hasn't been seen since last June?"

"No. . ."

"Geez, you really are out of the loop."

Reanna just shrugged.

"Let's just say I think that's why she left. The rumors were flying from November to July. You really didn't hear about that?"

"No one ever told me anything last year," Reanna complained.

"No one remembered you existed last year," Renè reminded her.

_And that was just the way I wanted it_, she remembered. _That's the way it's been, up until now_. _I wonder. . . could it have been that Bardic magic thing Saera was talking about?_

As Reanna slowly gained some confidence back through the next hour, she felt a lot better. When the bell for lunch finally rang, she thanked Renè and went to find Chris.

Just like they'd planned, she found him in Brimmer's room quietly taking apart his flute.

"Hey, ready to go?"

"Yup."

He grabbed a nice leather jacket that she hadn't noticed before and slung it over his shoulder before following her out of the room.

The cafeteria lines weren't as crowded as they normally were, and Reanna was puzzled before she remembered that Tuesdays were the pizza lunch special days for the Seniors and Juniors.

Chris followed her obediently into the line nearest the door. "What do they have for lunch here?"

"Chicken patties. . . crap pizza. . . sandwiches. . . sometimes salads or mozzarella sticks."

"Mmm, I think I'll stick with the salad, if they have it." He apparently changed his mind when he saw the wilted lettuce and meat that looked like it had come from a mutated chicken.

He finally selected something; she got a sandwich and they moved to the head of the line. She punched in her PIN on a small machine with a keypad and the lunch lady grunted. "Three twenty."

Reanna handed her money, got back change and then moved aside for Chris. He seemed unsure of what to do before she asked him, "Did the office give you a code?"

"Code? Oh."

He punched in 77543 and was rewarded with a beep. "Try again," the lunch lady urged.

The code 77534 got him his chicken patty and a soda and an exit from the cafeteria.

She led him to Madame Renault's room; the Frenchwoman was nowhere in sight upon their entrance, but a _plink_ from the piano alerted Reanna to her presence.

"_Bonjour_, Madame," Reanna called once Madame Renault sat up.

"_Bonjour_, Reanna! _Qui est votre ami bel?_"

_Who is my what friend? _"Madame, I don't speak French very well," Reanna said as she and Chris found seats near her violin case.

"Oh. _Je suis désolé. J'oublie, parfois,_" she muttered. "You are Monsieur Banyon?" she addressed Chris.

"Um, yeah," he said around a mouthful of patty.

"Reanna 'as mentioned you before. I wanted to thank you for the good you have done 'er."

The girl in question blushed. "Madame. . ."

"Nonsense! You 'ave been playing with so much more emotion than usual and much of your music 'as been 'appy instead of sad." She paused for a moment. "I like seeing you 'appy."

"Ah—thank you, Madame."

A quiet comment from Chris startled her. "Seems like more people than just me like seeing you happy."

Reanna felt flustered for some reason at his comment but then regained her composure. "I guess so," she answered noncommittally.

He turned around and looked at her; swallowed. "I think you knew they cared more than you let on."

_Did I really know that they cared?_

She thought back to other times in the school year; when she'd fallen down in gym class and a boy had helped her up and asked nothing for it; a time where she'd fallen far behind on her homework through a little fault of her own and three of her teachers had given unasked-for extensions on the due dates; the time when she'd fallen short of money when buying food for herself and her father and the cashier had covered the difference. All the _Are you okays_ that had gone answered with a scowl and a low, growled, _I'm fine_ until they no-one asked anymore.

All times when someone people had helped her; she'd thanked them for it but had gone on thinking the world an unkind place.

Perhaps she had been a little too hasty in placing her views upon everyone and everything.

When the bell rang and Chris went back to Brimmer and she stayed in the room cleaning up and setting up for Renault's advanced orchestra class, she felt full of some strange emotion she couldn't describe. Her classmates came in; none of _them_ said anything about the incident yesterday.

_News travels fast. _

§

They met outside the front doors an hour after school had ended.

"What took you so long?" Chris asked, looking only slightly stressed. "I was worried."

Reanna hefted the strap to her violin case higher on her shoulder. "Sorry. The principal wanted to talk to me and had the Dean and the GC there, so things got a little annoying."

He nodded, pulled her backpack onto his shoulder and started for the parking lot.

"Chris?" Reanna asked, and he looked down at her.

"What?"

"Why'd you take my bag?"

"Why not?" he pointed out reasonably. "You've got enough to carry."

She looked down at her shoes. _I really shouldn't be suspicious of everything he does. . . ._

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"For?"

"Uh," she shrugged. "You know."

He nodded. "K."

They went back to the Faire.

§

"Here. S'not pure, but i's the best I got."

Paul forked over the eighty dollars, and the dealer handed him a small plastic vial.

Incredulously, "This is it?"

"Whaddya want from me? S'harder to get. G's just got busted and he was my main supply, dickweed."

Paul set his chin and pocketed the drug. A cop rolled by and the dealer vanished, leaving him alone on the sidewalk. The officer inside glared at Paul, and then the car turned a corner and he was alone again. In a moment, he wished the cop had stuck around.

Out of what Paul had _thought _was a shadow in a doorway he came. "They've got me—they're inside and they've got me and oh my god help me!"

Paul clutched his little bag of snow and watched the dirty, unshaven man stumble toward him. Seventeen he may have been, but stupid he was not. Five years on the street had taught Paul Lynch him to keep himself—and his snow—as far away from freaks like this guy as possible.

"Please, I need help. You gotta help me!" The guy made a grab for him and Paul dodged away, holding his precious packet to his chest.

"Hey, get the fuck away from me, man!"

"Please—it's—it's inside my head and it keeps telling me to do terrible, terrible things! You gotta make it stop!" He grabbed at the teenager again and this time managed to snag a handful of his ratty windbreaker.

"Hey—hey!" Paul shrieked as something black and oily seeped from the man's hand onto his jacket and ran like water _up_ his shoulder. The part of his arm under the jacket felt both terribly cold and hot at the same time and followed the course of the oily stuff up his arm.

"What is this shit?" he wrenched free of the dirty man and tried to swipe the stuff off his shoulder with his free hand, but the blackness leeched on and now both hands were numb as well as one arm entirely. Paul watched in horror as the stuff crept up his arms and hands, leaving behind the awful, aching feeling of _not being there_. As it ran down his body and slowly up his neck, he watched as the look on the strange man's face turned to one of both horror and disgust, and when the stuff trickled upwards into Paul's eyes, he went blind.

Everything was dark and everything was cold and the only sound was an ugly hissing in his ears. He listened, eager to hear anything to assure him that this was just a bad batch of snow, but nothing came, and the hissing just got louder.

Nothing happened and reality and logic just slipped away.

When it told him to move his arms and legs, he didn't care.

When it told him to follow the dirty man, he obeyed.

When it told him to kill, Joe D.'s screams didn't even penetrate his dreamlike haze.


End file.
